Erasing Faith (24 page)

CUTTING TIES

I was careful.

I hadn’t seen my parents in more than three years. I hadn’t been home for a visit or spoken to my siblings on the phone. I didn’t check my old email addresses or call my former voicemail boxes.

I tried not to think about California, as I settled into the chilly climate of the northeast. I learned to dress in layers and finally understood the value of a quality pair of waterproof winter boots when the first snows turned to grimy grey slush on city streets. I forgot about kale and kombucha as I learned to like greasy Chinese takeout and massive late-night pieces of New York pizza.

I walked faster, talked faster. Dressed better.

I was a new person, with no ties to my old life…. with one, tiny exception.

Margot.

See, my old roommate wasn’t exactly easy to shake. And, as she was the only person in my life who’d been fed the same bullshit “declassified” government debriefing after Budapest, she knew exactly why I’d had to start over. Why I’d run.

So I did something that broke all my new rules: I opened a P.O. Box and let her send me letters.

She was the one tie from my past I couldn’t quite sever. Maybe it was reckless, but it wasn’t like we were daily pen pals. We’d exchanged a handful of notes over the past three years, mostly when holidays and special occasions rolled around. Often, Margot sent me postcards with no return address, covered in all manner of stamps and seals from her travels across the globe. I’d grin as I read about the Croatian caves she’d spent her Christmas exploring or the sweltering Belizean jungles she’d spent her birthday trekking through. Sometimes, when she settled in one place for long enough, I’d write back and tell her about my new life in New York — but those times were few and far between.

That was the only reason I didn’t worry when three months passed without a note from her.

Then six months.

Then eight months. 

The last message I’d received was a homemade Thanksgiving card in the shape of a handprint-turkey, its lopsided envelope bearing an Australian postage stamp. She’d enclosed a picture of herself posing by the Opera House with her blonde pixie cut blowing in the wind and her hands thrown up in the air. She’d sounded happy in her note — she’d loved Sydney and hoped to stay for a few months. She’d promised to write more often.

But then… nothing.

The card I sent at Christmas to her last known address went unanswered. There was no colorful birthday card in my mailbox in August when I turned twenty-four. And this week, it was Thanksgiving again — marking a full year without so much as a word from her.

I reassured myself that she’d gotten restless in one place and set out on a new adventure. She was probably just busy traveling. Maybe she was somewhere remote, like the Sahara desert, where there were no convenient post offices. Maybe she was spending the year at sea, sailing from port to port with no time to disembark and scribe me a few cheery words.

No matter what I told myself, the pit of anxiety burning its way through my stomach lining didn’t go away. I was so concerned about my friend, I’d even called her landlord in Sydney and left a message, hoping he’d know something — anything — that might ease my paranoid thoughts. I’d probably develop an ulcer from the endless worry, by the time I heard back from him.

Unfortunately for me, Margot was the least of my worries. My troubles were only just beginning.

And the careful new life I’d begun to construct in New York was about to implode.

***

Swiftly descending the steps of my apartment building, I hit the street and edged into the busy flow of pedestrian traffic rushing toward the nearest subway platform. I made it a few feet before I noticed the nondescript black sedan, its windows tinted too dark to see through, parked directly in front of my walk-up. With a reluctant, resigned sigh, I cut across the steady stream of walkers and reached for the passenger door handle. I wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked.

The chill of the early winter day was chased away as soon as I slipped inside the warm car.

“What do you want?” I asked without preamble. I hadn’t seen him for a few months and we weren’t exactly what you’d call friends. More like grudging acquaintances united by an inescapable past. So there was no point in beating around the bush — if he was here, something was wrong and I wanted to know about it.

“Nice to see you too, Montgomery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Can’t say the same, Gallagher.” 

Conor. Fucking. Gallagher.

A twenty-six year old dead sexy Gemini with a killer smile, ice-blue eyes, and a surly disposition that made all that hotness a moot point. The most curmudgeonly city cabbie looked like a cute, cuddly golden retriever puppy next to Conor. He was pathologically unpleasant.

At least, he was when it came to me.

See, there’s a rule about breakups. When you crush someone’s heart, you’re supposed to walk away — permanently. If you’re the one to inflict damage, you’re not supposed to stick around and torture them for the rest of their life. You remove yourself from the picture so they can move on in peace.

But, let me tell you, all the rules go right out the window when you’re desperate to start over and your ex-high-school-boyfriend is a rookie FBI agent with the resources to make that happen for you. A single, pleading phone call three years ago had brought Conor back to my doorstep with a new passport, social security card, birth certificate, and one-way plane ticket in hand. No questions asked.

Was it selfish? Sure.

Did I regret it? Not for a minute.

I knew, even after I’d so painfully ended our teenage tryst, that he would be there for me in an instant if I needed him. He was just that kind of guy — always putting others first, even when they didn’t deserve it. So, when I’d asked, he’d erased the girl he used to love with the help of a few untraceable, unauthorized contacts he’d made since joining the Bureau.

I’d said goodbye to my family, leaving them with nothing more than a hasty explanation about needing to hide from a dangerous ex-boyfriend I’d met abroad. Before I knew it, I’d been thrust into my own unofficial Witness Protection Program — and Conor had, in turn, been saddled with responsibility for the girl who’d broken his heart.

Helping me disappear was one thing.

Forgiving me for screwing up his life — not once, but twice — was another entirely. 

Still, he’d been my landing pad when everything fell to pieces. He’d brought me to New York with him and even let me crash at his tiny apartment for a few weeks until I found a job and could afford meals consisting of more than Ramen noodles. He hadn’t pressed me for unnecessary details about Budapest or the man who’d broken my heart there — perhaps because he wanted plausible deniability if any of this came back to bite him in the ass, or maybe because thinking about me with another man hit a little too close to home.

In either case, he knew the only thing that mattered: I was hiding from a man who made it his life’s work to find people who didn’t want to be found. The only way to do that was to become a ghost.

So I did.

“I’m going to be late for work,” I complained, snapping back into the present.

“I know. Sorry,” Conor said, his tone a little less gruff than usual.

My brows shot up on my forehead. “What’s wrong?” I asked instantly.

“Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“You just said
sorry
. You never apologize to me. In fact, you make it a point to be as rude as possible.” I stared at him, trying to read his expression. “So I repeat — what’s wrong?”

Conor sighed and leaned back in his seat. He glanced over at me and the typical glare that marred his face whenever he was in my presence was notably absent. There was compassion in his eyes — it made me nervous.

“Gallagher, so help me God, just spit it out,” I demanded. “Rip off the Band-Aid.”

He took a deep breath. “It’s your dad.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, fearing the worst as my mind conjured up possibilities.

Was he sick? Hurt? Dead?

Would I ever see him again?

That’s the problem with becoming a ghost — the dead don’t have families. And the people you leave behind don’t just stop living in your absence. Life goes on… even when you wish it wouldn’t.

“What happened?” The hope in my voice floated fragile in the air, wispy as a butterfly’s wing as I waited for him to elaborate.

“He was in a car accident late last night.” Conor’s blue eyes were steady on mine and, for once, not full of condescension or contempt. “Sounds like some asshole tried to run him off the road.”

His words were a kick to the stomach, slamming the wind from my lungs. I tried to respond, but found I couldn’t form words.

“I’m sorry I don’t have more details for you.” Conor’s voice was kind. “My mom called early this morning to let me know. I came straight here to tell you.”

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper, once I’d regained some composure.

I saw him nod in my peripheral and I could feel his gaze scanning my face. A moment of silence passed as I waded through the emotions warring for space inside my mind.

How could I go home?

How could I
not
go home?

It had been three years… wasn’t I safe from the ghost of boyfriends past, by this point?

Wes wasn’t looking for me. He’d probably never been looking for me. I bet I could’ve stayed Faith Morrissey for the rest of my life and never seen him again. After all — none of it had been real, for him. I’d been nothing more than a mark.

I thought of my Dad — my crazy, quirky, too-much-tie-dye-for-his-own-good Dad. And, suddenly, my skull emptied of all those chaotic thoughts tumbling around in free fall.

The slim chance that Wes was trying to find me by keeping tabs on my family wasn’t enough to justify staying away. 

Not when they needed me.

I raised my eyes to look at Conor and listened to my own voice, wavering and uncertain, as it broke the quiet. I sounded like a stranger to my own ears.

“Conor?”

He jolted. I never used his first name — not anymore. Not since I’d become Fae.

Clearing his throat, he quickly recovered. “Yeah, Montgomery?”

“I think…” I swallowed hard. “I’m going home.”

HOME SWEET HOME

I don’t remember much of my last two plane rides.

The trip home from Budapest — actually, pretty much everything from the time I woke up in the hospital to the time I landed in the States — was a blur. I know that me, Margot, and a handful of other American couriers were pumped for information by men in dark suits for hours, answering their questions about Hermes and looking through mugshots as we tried to help the CIA piece together who had been working inside the organization. I don’t remember what questions they asked or what names were inscribed on their badges. I don’t know if I was helpful to them.

I do know that there was a debriefing of sorts.

A tearful goodbye to Margot.

A plane ride home to California.

But those memories were clouded by a fog of unrelenting grief and sheer disbelief.

For months, I’d been a zombie — a living girl with a dead soul. As though I’d died in the fire that day but my corpse refused to stop functioning.

Thankfully, I was much more conscious for this plane ride.

I spent the five-hour flight trying not to fidget in my seat as I thought about seeing my family for the first time in years. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming — hopefully, my showing up would be a welcome surprise, rather than an unexpected imposition. Family reunions, even under the best of circumstances, were always stressful. And these were not the best of circumstances — not by a long shot.

As the plane landed and taxied to the gate, I tried to breathe deeply and assure myself that everything would be all right. I powered on my cell phone and saw that during the flight, I’d missed a call from an unknown number. Unease stirred in my belly as I dialed my voicemail box and listened to the unfamiliar Australian accent speaking into my ear.

“Miss Montgomery — this is Roger Callahan. You left me a message about one of my previous tenants… a Miss, uh…” There was a pause, as though he was reading her name off a piece of paper. Not a good sign. “Miss Mills.”

Clearly, Margot wasn’t living there anymore.

“I’m sorry to have missed you. Give me a call back at this number, when you have a chance. There are some things we should probably talk about.”

The line clicked off.

Crap. From the sound of things, Margot had gotten herself into trouble. Maybe she’d skipped out on her rent and owed him some money, I reasoned, ignoring the anxiety rumbling in my gut. But he hadn’t sounded angry — he’d sounded almost sympathetic. Like he felt sorry for me.

I tried not to think about what that might mean as I called back the number and listened to it ring for several long moments until his voicemail finally picked up.

This game of phone-tag was starting to get on my nerves.

I’d begun to dial again, but stopped when I realized the plane had reached the gate. The mystery of Margot Mills would have to wait another few hours, at least.

Hurrying through the terminal, I jostled alongside my fellow passengers, trying to beat the rush to the baggage claim. It was a shame I’d had to check my luggage, but certain items — like my Lady Smith and the three clips of ammo that accompanied her — were a big no-no in carry-on bags, unless you wanted to piss off the TSA agents and end up on several no-fly lists. It was a pain in the ass, but traveling unarmed wasn’t an option. My pistol had, in many ways, become my security blanket.

Thankfully, my small black duffel was one of the first bags off the carousel. The heels of my Chanel boots clicked steadily against the tile floors as I headed toward the rental car service. My pace was brisk, my face serene but unapproachable. Not a trace of the flailing, starstruck girl who’d stumbled through the airport three years ago, eager to start her first-ever adventure, was visible anymore.

Within the hour I was behind the wheel of a compact sedan, heading down the highway toward my parents’ house far faster than the legal limit. The music was cranked up, Florence + The Machine’s
Shake It Out
screaming from the speakers. The windows were rolled down, drenching me with mellow California heat and blowing my hair into a tangle around my face. Sixty minutes on the West coast, and I could already feel the tension seeping from my bones.

I was going home.

***

“You’re so thin!” Meadow shrieked before I’d even set down my suitcase. “Have you been doing hot yoga?”

“Your hair is different.” Saffron’s nose scrunched up in distaste as she examined me from head to toe. “Darker.”

They shot questions rapid-fire, not giving me time to answer a single one.

“Is that a Prada blouse?”

“Those are the new Chanel boots! How did you get those?”

“What happened to your frumpy jeans-and-a-t-shirt look?”

It was the typical sisterly greeting — what I liked to call antagonistic affection. Our interactions were full of advice and admonishment. Equal parts smiles and snide remarks, excited compliments and underhanded criticisms. My older sisters were mostly well-intentioned, though I couldn’t say I’d missed them tremendously in our time apart.

Except for Rain. She was silent as she hugged me tightly, and her smile was as warm as her embrace.

“Dad is doing fine — a few bumps and bruises, but he’s stable and conscious. They’re just keeping him overnight for observation,” she whispered in my ear. “It’s good to see you, Faith.”

“You too, Rainey.” I pulled away and turned to face my other two sisters, who were still clucking like mother hens over my appearance.

“We didn’t know you were coming,” Meadow said. “No one expected you would.”

I bit my tongue.

“There’s no bed made up for you.” Saffron made a
tsk
noise. “I’m sure your room is a dusty mess.”

“That’s fine.” I shrugged and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m here to see Dad, not to lounge around in bed.” 

“Dylan and Lennon can’t make it.” Saffron’s voice was thick with disapproval. “They’re on some kind of snowboarding trip in the Himalayas.”

I did roll my eyes, that time.

“Bill is at home with the kids.” Meadow’s words were welcome — I wasn’t eager to see her brood of children or their father. Bill rarely pulled his eyes away from the television long enough to speak, and her kids were simply blurs of movement, racing around the house so fast it was impossible to make out their features clearly.

“So is Steven,” Saffron added. “He’s watching the twins.” 

My relief was palpable. The last time all my nieces and nephews had seen me, “Auntie Faith” had ended up with permanent marker all over her face and a rat’s nest hairstyle it would take hours — and several clumps of lost hair — to undo.  

“So, speaking of the men in our lives…” Rainey had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Are you dating anyone?”

Meadow and Saffron instantly leaned in, their attention fixed so intently on me I had to fight the strong desire to run away.

“Aw, crap, is that the time?” I exclaimed, glancing at the nonexistent watch on my wrist. “If I’m going to see Dad today, I’ve gotta go.”

“Faith.” Rainey’s voice was playfully stern.

“We’ve already been to the hospital today. Visiting hours are practically over, by this point,” Saffron said.

“Really, it doesn’t make much sense for you to go now,” Meadow chimed in. “But then, you never were exactly plagued by good sense.”

Rainey saw the look on my face and pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Well, apparently that’s genetic,” I snapped, glancing from Saffron to Meadow determinedly. “Dad was just in a car accident — forgive me for not wanting to talk about my social life. I’m only here for two days. I’m going to see my father.” 

With that, I turned on my heel and headed for the car, chiding myself for not going straight to the hospital. I could still hear Meadow and Saffron grumbling about their stubborn little sister as Rainey’s laughter chased me out the door.

***

It was great to see my parents.

They both teared up when I walked into the hospital room which, of course, immediately made my eyes water as well. Three years without seeing them suddenly felt like an eternity. 

My mother was wearing a long flowing patterned dress straight out of Woodstock and though my dad was dressed in a hospital gown, his John Lennon glasses were still firmly in place on the bridge of his nose. They both looked exactly the same and I found deep comfort in that. Everything else may’ve changed, but my parents were one fixture that never would. 

My dad was in far better shape than I’d been anticipating, boasting nothing more than a dislocated shoulder and a slightly bruised ego after my mom spent several hours making fun of his driving skills. The CT scans showed there was no internal bleeding from the bump on his head, and all the other tests his doctors ran came back clear. He’d be released tomorrow.

We’d been catching up for a while when a nurse came in to tell us visiting hours were over. We said goodbye to my dad, promising to pick him up in the morning, and soon enough I was walking toward the parking garage, arm in arm with my mother — something I’d thought, for a very long time, I’d never be able to do again.

“I’m sorry,” I said abruptly.

Her head turned toward me. “For what, baby girl?”

“For running away because I couldn’t face my past.” I swallowed hard. “And then for staying away.”

My mom was silent for a long moment.

“I didn’t plan any of this,” I whispered.

“‘Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans,’” she quoted softly.

A smile broke out across my face. “Do you have an appropriate John Lennon quote stashed away for every occasion?”

“Pretty much.” She titled her head to the side in contemplation. “But I’m sure your father has even more of them memorized.”

My smile stretched wider.

“Don’t be sorry for the choices you’ve had to make to survive, baby girl. You are who you are. Embrace it. Live it. Love it. And never, ever apologize for it.” Her arm tightened around mine as she pulled me closer. “No matter how many years go by without seeing you, or how far from us you travel, we will always love you. There are no boundaries or time limits on love — it’s eternal.”

I felt tears gather in my eyes. “Who said that one?” I asked in a choked up voice. “Lennon again?”

“No.” She kissed my temple. “That one is all me.” 

***

When you’re away from home for a long stretch of time, you almost forget how good it is.

You convince yourself that the feeling you get when you’re surrounded by family can somehow be satisfied by sniffing a “Home Sweet Home” scented jar candle or by looking through old photographs and conjuring memories of times gone by. But the truth is, there’s no substitute for the real thing — for being embraced by your Dad in a too-tight hug that makes your ribs ache. For having your Mom stroke your hair like you’re still her baby girl. Even for your oppressively overbearing siblings.

By the time I had to leave on Sunday, I was an emotional wreck. I drove away from the ranch house I’d called home for eighteen years, not knowing when I’d be back again. Looking in the rearview mirror at my family as they waved goodbye from the front porch, for the first time in years I felt a few tears slip down my cheeks.

I wasn’t ready to go back to my fake life — not yet.

But staying wasn’t an option. The sad, simple truth was that I didn’t belong here anymore.

I didn’t belong anywhere.

So I drove. Two hours on the highway with the wind in my hair, listening to The Beatles sing about all the lonely people. It felt appropriate.

I shouldn’t have stopped at the rest area. I should’ve driven straight to the airport without looking back.

But I had to pee.

Who would’ve thought a full bladder would be the thing to seal my fate?

***

One moment, I was walking back to my car, brushing still-wet hands against my Donna Karan skirt and lamenting the fact that both the air dryer and paper towel dispenser had been out of service… and the next, a palm clamped over my mouth, the purse was snatched from my grip, and I was deposited neatly into the trunk of my rental car before I could so much as reach for the gun in my thigh holster.

I thrashed and screamed but whoever had grabbed me was far too strong — there was no way to escape his hold. I never even saw his face before the trunk slammed shut and I was enclosed in the cramped, dark space. My cellphone lay uselessly in the bottom of the Prada bag he’d so easily taken from me.

I screamed though I knew there was no one around to hear the muffled sound. The rest area had been practically deserted.

The unmistakable rumble of the engine starting made my heart pound faster. Sweat began to bead across my forehead when I felt the car pull out of the parking space and merge back onto the highway.

I kicked and clawed at the taillights, but they wouldn’t come loose. I bloodied my fists against the metal latch, banging until there was no strength left in my arms. With a scream of frustration, I was finally forced to accept the fact that I wasn’t getting out of this trunk until someone opened it from the outside.