Nick van der Leek [Leek - Two Face- the Man Underneath Christopher Watts

I came home and walked in the house andnothing. Just vanished. Chris Watts to Denver7

The LCD on the dashboardof the white Mitsubishi GT blinks three numerals in white: 1:47. Nickole UtoftAtkinsons hail-damaged vehicle, with a year left to pay off, cruises silentlythrough a brandnew neighborhood. The scatteringof new homes slumbering on the outskirts of Frederick glisten under thepolish of stars wheeling over a Colorado night sky.

The diamond-white beams turninto Saratoga Trail. The two 30-something women in the cabin are silent. Itsbeen a long night. Hours ago they were in another time, in another place, andif theyd stayed there, Shanann may have still had the rest of her life aheadof her.

At 18:00 in Tempe theLe-vel girls have a bigger dinner and more drinks than expected when theirflight is cancelled. As if the gods are determined to keep Shanann away fromhome, the power at the Thirsty Lion Gastropub & Grill goes out. The ladiespost photos of themselves and their leftovers meals in the semi-darkness toFacebook. Shanann posts her final message to Facebook:

Best way to leave Arizonawith you and Addy and loss of power while eating dinner.

Determined to get home,the former nurse and hairstylist book and board new flights. After a two-hourdelay, they finally board at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix,landing at Denver International at close to 01:00 Monday morning. After agreat motivational weekend, theyre determined to get home and hold theirbabies.

But its too late forthat now, at least for Shanann. She will never hold her children again. Shewill never the see the sun shine on their faces ever again. She will never eatagain. And this sleep, this night, will be the last on this world. Does shehave any inkling as she races towards her shipwrecked home in darkness, of whatawaits?

Most people this time ofnight are dead to the world. But somewhere in the dark up ahead, eyes like darkwet pebbles are wide awake, exhilarated and waiting.

Thisis the night. Its now or never.

33-year-old Chris Wattshas had a long night at the end of a long weekend with the girls. WithShananns imminent arrival comes a feeling of dread.

15weeks.

Genderreveal party!

He blinks in the dark,his plan playing out in his mind like a movie. It ripples effortlessly, butwith each ripple adrenalin energises his muscles, like electricity charging aphone battery.

Thisis the night. Its now or never.

He feels the taste ofblood and metal on his tongue. He takes a deep breath. He didnt expect to belooking forward to this moment, but now that its here, dread is turning toanticipation, even relief.

Itwill be over soon. Its almost over

Disembarking in the darkand then driving 31 miles north and east of Denver to get to the town ofFrederick [population 8 600], and then the new and rapidlyexpanding neighborhoods east of Frederick, 34-year-old Shanann Wattsdoesnt know it, but this is the last time she will see any of this again. Itsa one way road for her.

She does not register theoil derricks, or their elbows, chugging tirelessly and mechanically at thecrusts of unseen fields. She has no idea what the significance oil, or oilstorage, could have for her flesh and blood, or her children, in a matter ofhours.

Beside her, Atkinsonmentions a book shes been reading on the plane: Girl, Wash Your Face.Its about beingan imperfect mother in an imperfect world. Like the power outage, thisbook, now, could turn the fates. It could save Shananns life if she can onlysee the message and what it means for her life, and her home situation rightnow. But the signal is lost in the noise and Nickoles raucous laughter. As thelines of the road slip under them, the hinge of destiny continues to turntowards its imminent denouement.

Over Shananns shoulderthe numbers of a few homes flash by the window like seconds ticking on a clock.Then, as the LCD hits 01:48, Utoft Atkinsons fleshy arms tug at the steering,and the nose dips onto the moon grey cement driveway of #2825.

Shananns door clicksopen and the two move to the trunk to unload her luggage. Its nippy outside,close to 50 degrees Fahrenheit with a slight cloying wind. The porchlights areon, but every last window in the double-story faade is an unlit blank. Thehouse is dark, like a ship lying motionless on an airless sunken seabed. Theporch, where Chris will stand in two days, smiling and shrugging, is vacant,its wooden rail like a ships railing skirting the small deck.

Hulking alongside theWatts home are similar roofs tilted upward like pyramids into the glitteringsky. Their mint-new lawns, newly hammered timbers, newly painted corners andveneers give the neighborhood an artificial fragrance, like the inside of newcar.

Shanann labors with her loudneon-pink-bleeding-into-red luggage, pulling the single suitcase alonga narrow cement apron, then hoisting it over two grey steps and finallyonto the porch outside the front door. The pregnant 34-year old opens it, takesa breath and steps inside.

Somewhere inside, Chrisis awake. His black eyes watch her enter remotely, via the doorbell camera.Unknown to anyone right then, a neighbors dashboard camera also silentlyrecords the scene. Nickole leans forward in time to see a flurry of fingers asShanann waves at her from inside. Shanann has time to wonder:

Wheres Deeter?

The batteredMitsubishi withdraws, its lights swing away and as the front door clicksshut, the interior of the house is cast into darkness once more.