Erasing Faith (26 page)

OUT OF MY MISERY

I replayed it over and over in my mind as I watched her car disappear down the winding road, back toward the highway.

Her eyes flashing hotly, her expression pinched with anger as the words flew from her mouth.

God, what don’t you understand? I
hate
you.

She hated me.

I hated me, too.

Standing there, watching her drive back out of my life, I almost fell to my knees in the dirt. Almost lost it completely.

It had been hard enough to hold it together when she was standing in front of me. Now that she was gone, my cocky facade slipped entirely and I felt myself spinning out of control.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, pressed my eyes closed, and counted until my breathing rate returned to normal. This time, it took far longer than five seconds to regain command of myself.

Seeing her again — no matter how pissed off at me she’d been — was like breathing fresh air for the first time in years. Like stepping into a pool of sunlight after a lifetime spent in the darkness. She was even more beautiful now — her cheekbones were sharper, more angular, framing those catlike eyes and making her soft mouth look even more inviting.

I tried to block out memories of that mouth, hot as hell against my own — in a cable car, in an alleyway, on a hardwood floor, in her bed. I tried to shut out thoughts of her hands threading into my hair, pulling my lips down on hers in a kiss so bruising I worried I’d hurt her with the strength of it. I tried to ignore the tightness that settled in my chest when I noticed her curves, the full-bodied curves of a woman, beneath the tight-fitting clothes she wore.

Gone was the girl in cut-off shorts and flip flops — whatever traces of youth had remained when I’d met her in Budapest were long vanished. She was a woman, now — dressed to kill in stilettos and a skirt that hugged her ass so tightly it made my mouth go dry and my cock twitch in my jeans. Thoughts of the luminous white skin I knew lay beneath those clothes drove me to distraction the entire time she stood there glaring at me with a gun aimed at my chest.

I half-hoped she’d shoot, just to put me out of my fucking misery.

Looking at her and knowing I’d never have her again was worse than any torture my enemies could ever come up with. But it wasn’t just unfulfilled lust driving me insane. It was the realization that she was different.

Budapest, meeting me… it had changed her.

The stylish clothes and darker hair were new. So was the gun.

But the thing that hit me like a fucking sledgehammer was the change in her eyes.

They were no longer wide with wonderment at the world. They weren’t the eyes of a naive, young girl with an eternity of possibilities laid out before her. There was no excitement or blind trust in their depths.

Now, they looked like mine. Narrowed with suspicion. Wary of everything and everyone.

And the thought that Faith — that the hopeful, happy girl I’d loved since before I could even recognize the emotion — was less like herself and more like me — a coldhearted bastard with a bad attitude and no redeeming qualities — was the biggest fucking tragedy of all.

She’d said it best — I ruined her life.

She didn’t want my help.

She didn’t trust me.

She hated me.

Too bad. I didn’t give a fuck. 

I was going to make sure she’d stay
alive
to hate me for the rest of her extraordinarily long life, if it was the last thing I ever did.

Sure, it would be easier for both of us if I simply vanished again. She wouldn’t have to relive the worst thing that had ever happened to her, and I wouldn’t have to look at her like she was a stranger. Wouldn’t have to keep my distance and pretend it didn’t kill me every time her eyes flashed with anger and abhorrence.

But this bloody, fucked up world I lived in, paved as it was with death and deception, had taught me one thing:

The right path was rarely the path of least resistance. And the hardest things in life were usually the only ones worth doing.

So damned if I was going to stand on the sidelines and watch as she ran straight to her death. I’d been looking for her for too long to let her go again now that I’d finally found her.

Faith Morrissey was alive.

Sure, she was full of piss and vinegar, eager to put a bullet in me, and currently racing away as fast as her cheap-ass economy rental car could carry her.

But she was
alive
.

And a world with Faith — even the new guarded, gun-toting version — was better than any reality without her.

For the first time in three years, I felt a real, genuine smile tug at one corner of my mouth as I turned and headed into the small patch of trees where I’d stashed my motorcycle.

I was so fucking in love with that woman, it was going to kill me.

THE MAELSTROM

I managed to keep it together until he faded to nothing more than a speck in my rearview mirror.

My breaths started to come faster when I hit the main road. The bounce of my shocks as the tires climbed over the bump from dirt to asphalt seemed to shake whatever shred of composure I’d still been holding onto right out of my grip.

I left him behind; I began to fall apart. 

Back on solid pavement, speeding away with my foot pressed firmly against the gas pedal, the tears began.

Slowly at first. Just a trickle down each cheek.

Then faster and faster, a steady torrent of emotion, blurring the road before my eyes and eventually forcing me to pull over at a small lookout point. I reached down and blindly shoved the shifter into park as my head dropped to rest against the steering wheel. And for several long minutes, with my fingers pressed uselessly against my eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of tears, I wept like a child. Like the world was coming to an end.

Ragged sobs tore through my chest. I hiccupped for air. Lungs aching, windpipe half-closed, each breath was a hard-fought battle. 

I hadn’t cried like this in years.

Not since I’d become Fae. My new persona was sophisticated, self-contained, and always had her shit together.

Five minutes in his presence, and I was back to weepy old Faith.

Crying like a baby, as if tears had ever been a viable solution to any of my life’s problems. I was fully aware that weeping rarely resulted in anything except a headache and puffy, red eyes.

And yet, I couldn’t seem to stop.

***

I don’t know how much time passed before I finally got hold of myself.

With swollen eyes and a heavy heart, I dialed the number, praying he wouldn’t answer. My eyes pressed closed when the Australian accent sounded through the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr. Callahan?”

“Yes, this is Roger. Who’s calling?”

“It’s Fae Montgomery. I called you a few days ago about—”

“Your friend,” he said, his voice resigned. “Yes, I remember.”

“Margot,” I supplied softly.

“Right, Margot Mills.” He sighed. “Well, I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but she’s gone.”

“She doesn’t live there anymore?” The hope in my voice was thin.

“No, you’ve misunderstood me…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but… she’s dead.”

She’s dead.

My world screeched to a halt and I nearly dropped the phone. The tears that had finally dried up were instantly back in my eyes, running down my face as I tried to keep from hyperventilating. I stared at the cracked leather of the steering wheel, my eyes wide with shock and denial, telling myself this couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Miss Montgomery?” Roger prompted. “Are you still there?”

“When?” I managed to gasp out, after a few moments had passed in silence.

“Almost a year ago.” Roger spoke hastily, no doubt eager to finish up this call and get on with his day. “She didn’t live here long. I barely knew her. Seemed like a nice enough girl, though, no matter what the papers said about her.”

That caught my attention.

“What?” I whispered in a hollow voice.

“Well, that’s the thing… they found her…” He cleared his throat again. “Miss, are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Please, just tell me.”

“She was in an alley. There was something about the evidence found at the scene — and, well, the manner she was killed in — that led police to think she was involved with some pretty bad people.”

I forced the question from my lips. “What kind of people?”

“Some kind of European drug cartel or terror group. I’m sorry, I just don’t remember. But I think they were based in Hungary.”

Terror group.

Hungary.

I felt my heart drop into my stomach like a stone.

“Listen, Miss Montgomery, I might not have all the facts right. This was nearly a year ago and, like I said, I didn’t know her all that well.”

“I… this…” My mind was spinning so fast I could barely string words together. “Is there anything else you can tell me about what happened?”

“I’m sorry.” Roger’s voice was sympathetic. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ll see if I can dig up any of the old newspaper articles about her death. If you’d like, I’ll email them to you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered into the receiver, my voice choked with grief.

I gave him my email address and we hung up a few moments later. I sat for hours with my arms propped on the steering wheel, turning my phone over in my hands and watching the sky turn from blue to yellow to pink to gray. Listening to the single thought that kept turning over in my mind like a washing machine on an endless cycle.

Margot was dead… and Wes was telling the truth.

***

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance.

Crack open any psychiatric textbook, and you’ll see Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ five stages of grief spelled out with careful definitions and maybe even a colorful, convenient chart to illustrate them. You can study them, memorize them, take an exam or write an essay of 2,000 words or less explaining them. You can recite their descriptions verbatim and think, because you received that coveted A grade from your high school psychology teacher, that you know a little about grief.

Truth is, though… you don’t know a damn thing. At least, not until you’ve lived through it and come out the other side.

You don’t move through the stages like some kind of grim ten-step program. There’s no one-by-one order when it comes to what you feel after losing someone you love.

You feel everything all at once — an awful maelstrom of emotions. They swirl inside you like a violent hurricane: rage wrapped up in sadness blanketed by pleading cloaked in denial. It’s horrible. Horrific. And when you’re caught in that tornado, held hostage by your grief, there’s no getting out. You simply have to wait for the winds to die down and the twister to release you.

It takes most people months. Others, years. Some, lifetimes.

I had mere minutes.

There was simply no time to process my grief, as thoughts of Margot’s murder were overtaken by fears of my own.

If Wes had been right — if I really was a target — I had to get to the airport, book a new flight, and return to my safe, new life before my past caught up to me.

It was now dark and I’d been sitting in my car unmoving for so long, my legs were both asleep. My tears had dried hours ago, leaving salty trails on my cheeks. Flipping down the overhead mirror, I examined my face.

Dirt from my graceful fall out of the trunk still coated my features, but there were streaks through it where my tears had cut a stark path. My makeup was gone. I was missing one high heel. My clothes were unsalvageable, covered as they were in grime. In a feeble attempt to pull myself together, I brushed at my skirt, smoothed my hands over my fitted sweater to remove unwanted wrinkles, and ran a hand through my hair.

I was a mess. If I walked through the airport like this, I’d immediately draw unwanted attention.

It was time to pull myself together.

***

A half hour later, I’d reloaded my gun, shimmied out of my dirty clothes in the backseat, and swapped them for a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, knee-high brown boots, and a maroon silk blouse. I used a wet wipe from my purse to clean the dirt from my face and neck, applied a touch of mascara to my eyes, and swiped some lipstick on my lips. When I flipped down the overhead mirror, I saw polished, put-together Fae Montgomery staring back at me. I almost recognized myself again. Only the haunted look in my eyes was evidence of the deep grief I felt every time I thought of Margot.

I started to drive. This time, the music stayed off and the windows remained firmly rolled up. I drove through the night for hours in total silence, with only haunted thoughts to keep me company. Before I knew it, the sky was lightening as dawn broke and I’d nearly reached the airport. The traffic grew congested the closer I got, as several roads merged into one line of vehicles waiting to approach the terminals. I found myself glancing in the rearview mirror more than once as I weaved through traffic, watching the cars behind me.

A flutter of unease erupted in my stomach when I saw the same car that had been trailing me for almost twenty minutes was still there, half-concealed behind the truck directly in back of my rental. Initially, the car caught my eye because it reminded me of the one Conor was always driving — a black sedan with windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see through them even if your face was pressed against the glass. Now, I was watching it for another reason altogether.

I’d noticed it following me almost as soon as I exited the freeway.

Of course, it was possible that whoever was in the car also had a flight to catch. Perhaps the fact that we’d picked the same route to the airport was sheer coincidence. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe the news of Margot’s death and the things Wes said to me were simply too much to handle without succumbing to crushing anxiety. But, unwarranted or not, the fears had gotten into my head.

I was starting to panic.

Taking a deep breath, I drove straight past the turn that would bring me to the rental car return area. Instead, I pulled into the cellphone waiting lot, cut across the rows of idling cars, and merged immediately back into the main flow of traffic. When I glanced in the rearview, I felt my heartbeat pick up to a rapid staccato as fear began to course through my veins.

The sedan had mirrored my every turn. I could see it edging out of the cell lot, back into the gridlock behind me.

Shit. Definitely following me. 

My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles went white.

I looped through the airport departure drop-off zone, changing lanes several times to conceal my car in the fray.

The sedan was still there every time I looked back.

I wound around the arrival concourse, speeding up to cut off several large coach buses.

Seconds later, the sedan was five cars behind mine, edging ever closer.

What the fuck did I do, now?

***

It was a split-second decision.

The kind you make when you’re at a restaurant and you’ve got two meal choices floating in your head. You’re wavering, completely undecided, and the waiter opens their mouth… and, suddenly, your tone is confident and you’re saying
chicken parmesan
as though there was never a question about what you were ordering.

You’ve decided, but it’s not even a conscious decision. Not really.

That’s the closest I can come to describing why I did what I did.

The options were clear: on my left, the exit lane that would lead me out of the airport; on my right, the terminal, where I knew there’d be two uniformed police officers stationed just inside the sliding entry doors.

I’d wonder later if, at that moment, I’d chosen differently, if I’d picked the other option…  how would it have ended for me?

But in that infinitesimal moment of time, with my car in the middle lane and both options approaching as my tires ate up asphalt too rapidly for rational thought… I didn’t consider the future. I made that split-second decision.

I turned the wheel right.

Slamming the car into park before it had fully stopped rolling, I looped an arm through the strap of my black duffel, slung my purse over one shoulder, and double checked that my gun was still stashed inside. My eyes locked on the rearview mirror and what I saw there made my stomach clench so hard I nearly threw up.

The sedan was swerving onto the shoulder. In seconds, it would be directly behind my car and my tiny window of escape would close.

Without another thought, I grabbed the handle and swung open my door. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I was running. My door slammed shut, my soles pounded the blacktop, and I began to round the front hood.

I shouldn’t have looked back, but it was as if my eyes were no longer controlled by my brain. I couldn’t stop myself.

And, surely, they weren’t going to try to abduct me here,
now
, surrounded by cars and cameras and countless witnesses… Right?

Wrong.

Time shifted into slow motion as I watched him climbing out of the car.  Reaching into his suit jacket. Pulling out a gun.

And I knew, deep in the marrow of my bones, that I was never going to make it to the police officers. The entry doors were too far away; I’d never outrun his bullets.

One good shot, and I’d be gone — for good, this time.

I felt my eyes go wide when I saw the man’s face. Recognition and horror burned brightly in my mind, causing me to stumble for the briefest of moments. My hands slammed against the hood and I dropped into an instinctual crouch, using the car as a shield.