ELEVEN

At the very bottom of his suitcase, hidden in between two shirts, one of which he’d just pulled out to wear during dinner, Frank Castle was surprised to discover his journal.

He hadn’t meant to bring it. Hadn’t even recalled taking it out of his attaché since he’d come back from Florida. Maria must have done it, he thought, probably by accident, packed the journal along with his clothes.

It was funny to see it here, to hold it in his hand again. Felt a little unnatural, in a way, because Castle had always kept the journal with his equipment, with whatever gear the particular op he was on at the time required.

The little leather-bound book had gone with him all over the world, in fact, from Baghdad to the Balkans and back again. Now that he thought about it, it had always represented a little piece of home to him—maybe even a little bit of Maria, who’d given it to him in the first place, that first Christmas he’d spent in Iraq. Writing in it, he suddenly realized, had been like unburdening himself to her—even though he’d never once shown her what was inside.

But now he didn’t need the little book anymore.

From now on, he was going to be able to confide in Maria firsthand. Take the tube home from work, and talk to her.

He started to put the journal away, and then thought:

Ought at least to say a proper good-bye.

Flipping the little book open, and taking pen in hand, he began to write.