Twenty-Three

Marcus stood in the dark, abandoned building, waiting for Isabelle. She would come. He knew it like he knew the sun would rise tomorrow.

He ran his hand over his mask, making certain it was in place before sweeping his palm over the scarf covering his hair. He had to hide it so she wouldn’t see he’d cut it. Patting his fake mustache and beard, he knew he couldn’t risk Isabelle becoming suspicious of his identity. Several times since they married, she had stared deeply into his eyes, and he held his breath, waiting for her to recognize him. Thankfully, she hadn’t. Could it be that while holding her prisoner and he wore a mask she didn’t see the true color of his eyes? He sincerely hoped.

A noise from out on the street pu