Chapter 2: Reptiles, Secrets, and the Story of Sheep

My name is Marcus Howell. I’m forty-two years old. Since I was a kid, suspense and detective stories have been my obsession, and now I make my living writing thrillers.

I’ve been married to Natalie for years. We always clicked, and she’s always been my fiercest first reader.

My days blurred together—lab work, scribbled drafts, and the soft rustle of gecko feet in the terrarium at night. Besides writing, I have a lifelong hobby: raising reptiles. Turtles, frogs, lizards—these oddballs fascinate me. I even started a YouTube channel for my turtles—mostly for fun, but sometimes strangers would comment on how chill my bearded dragon looked.

I set up a special room at home just for them, putting serious hours into building a giant tank with real moss and misting fans—like a tiny Florida Everglades right in my spare room. The place was steamy and green, a pocket jungle in suburbia.

I make my living as a writer now, but my undergrad degree was in bioengineering. I guess I’m still putting my old education to work—just in a weirder way than anyone expected.

When Natalie and I first met, she thought the reptiles were kind of creepy. But she’s easygoing, and after a while, she started finding their clumsy, awkward moves kind of adorable. We never had kids, so we raised reptiles together, and it brought us a weird kind of joy. Whenever deadlines ate me alive, she’d feed the geckos and clean the tanks.

That night, after a late-night writing sprint, I realized it was past midnight. Natalie was still up.

I wandered into the reptile room and found her standing there, just watching a frog.

The light from the tank shimmered green and gold across her face, painting moving shadows on the wall. The room was warm and humid—the filter bubbling, crickets chirping in the background. She stood there in pajamas, arms folded, watching that frog like she expected it to break into song or solve a riddle.

She sighed, "Honestly, I used to be scared of these guys."

Then she glanced up, casual but curious: "Marcus, is there any animal you’re scared of?"

I paused, and as I glanced around, my eyes landed on a plush sheep toy perched on the shelf—leftover from a childhood petting zoo trip that went sideways. The memory sent a shiver down my spine. A weird idea flashed through my mind.

"Yeah," I said, dead serious. "I’m scared of sheep."

She squinted at me, puzzled. "Why? Sheep are, like, the gentlest things ever."

"Sheep’s eyes are these flat, glassy things—horizontal slits that don’t blink much. You look at them too long, and it feels like they’re looking through you."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You’re so weird. Not even a snake or a spider?"

"Nope. Sheep are the worst. You don’t look sleepy yet, so let me tell you a story."

The reptile room was dim, the lizards blinking from behind the glass. The house was so still, I could hear the hum of the air conditioner and the click of the thermostat. Outside, the wind rattled the maple tree. It was the kind of night that begged for secrets and confessions. I dropped into the old leather recliner by the tank.

"So mysterious," Natalie teased, grinning. "Let’s hear it."

"The main character’s name is Marcus Howell."

She shot me a look, eyebrow raised. "Using your own name? Really?"

"It makes the story more real."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, half on guard, half amused. I took a deep breath and began.