White Space Season 1

the monitor up, to make sure she wasn’t just hearing things.
    Nothing but the white noise, albeit louder, of the monitor.
    Then, more giggling, followed by Aubrey saying, “Da-da.”
    A voice whispered, “Don’t wake your mommy.”
    Liz shot from her bed, and out through her bedroom door in seconds, bursting into Aubrey’s room, fists balled and ready to attack whatever intruder dared come into her house.
    But there was nobody in the room, except Aubrey, staring out the window, through the open curtains which Liz was pretty certain she’d closed.
    “Da-da,” Aubrey said again, looking at the window.
    Liz went to the window, checked to make sure it was locked, and saw nothing but darkness outside, and the black security van parked across the street.
    “Da-da,” Aubrey said from her crib.
    A chill ran through Liz’s body.

    * *

    2:00 a.m.

    Liz couldn’t sleep after rocking Aubrey back to sleep.
    No matter how many times she’d gone over what she thought she heard, it failed to make sense. Just like Roger shooting people doesn’t make sense, eh? There was nobody in her daughter’s room. The window was locked tight. And even though Aubrey was saying, “Da-da,” there was no way in hell Liz was going to start believing in ghostly visitations from her dead husband.
    The only answer which made sense was that she’d imagined the voice. She was stressed out, tired, and had been running on empty for five days running. She needed sleep before she lost her mind completely.
    She headed downstairs and into the kitchen where she made some hot cocoa. She pulled the large green mug from the microwave, added a splash of milk, then scooped a handful of marshmallows from a glass canister on the counter. She took a sip, savoring the creamy, sugary, chocolate concoction.
    Hot cocoa made her feel like a kid again. She also hoped it would help her sleep. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was blinking 12:00.
    She couldn’t remember the power going out.
    She went into the living room and looked at the clock on the cable box which read 2:04 a.m. She might get four or five hours of sleep if she fell asleep right away. Emma usually woke up somewhere between six and seven in the morning, which made some days tougher than others to get through. Tomorrow looked like it would be a long one. Especially if she didn’t get to sleep soon.
    But something was bothering her. An itch in her brain; something she felt like she was supposed to remember, but couldn’t.
    She walked from room to room with the mug of cocoa in her hand, hoping she’d see something to jog her memory.
    Is it something I’m supposed to do tomorrow? A bill I need to pay?
    She found herself in Roger’s office, clicked on the light, and smiled when she saw that Alex had straightened it up so it no longer looked like a burglar had tore through the room.
    Poor Alex.
    Roger’s death had rocked them all, but Alex seemed to be taking it the hardest, even if he hid it the best. Liz knew he was hurting. She’d tried to reach out to him, but she didn’t know what to do. Part of her felt like she needed to give him his space to deal with this and come to terms with what happened. But another part of her felt that no matter how old Alex was, he still needed his mother.
    She’d tried a combination of both approaches, but nothing seemed to be working particularly well. Which was why the cleaned office made her smile. It was the first thing he’d done since Friday, and seemed to suggest progress.
    She fought a fresh batch of tears, and just as she was about to turn the light off, that itch returned to her brain, demanding she give it attention.
    She turned around, wondering what she was supposed to see in Roger’s office.
    “What is it?” she asked the room.
    She sat at Roger’s desk, set the mug down in front of her, then ran her hands across the surface, remembering him sitting behind it on so many nights, working on his papers, or writing his books. She hoped the police would return the books and journals he’d been writing. She hated to think that she’d never get to read the things he’d spent so many hours on. Hated to think that Alex might never get to read what his father had written. Though Roger didn’t share his work with them, she knew that in this situation, he’d want them to read what he’d devoted so much of his life to.
    She felt her tears returning, wiped her eyes, then leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, feeling tired