Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

  His grin faded a bit. “Well, then there’s no harm in hearing me out, is there?”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his logic. “If I listen, you’ll give me the keys?”

  He nodded.

  “Then get it over with.” I somehow found the strength to make my voice steady, when inside I was falling apart. “I’d like you out of my life again as soon as possible.”

  “Fine.” His jaw clenched tighter. “I’m here to tell you you’re in danger.”

  I tried not to scoff.

  “The mission in Budapest three years ago — I was there for a man named Szekely. He’s an arms dealer, but not the kind who fucks around with old army regulation AK-47s and sawed off shotguns. He’s next-gen. Heat-seeking missiles, drones, biological warfare. My protocol was to gather intel on his front company—”

  “Hermes,” I muttered darkly.

  He nodded. “I planted cameras and got eyes inside—”

  “By using me,” I supplied, my voice venomous.

  “You know, for someone who said she wanted this over as soon as possible, you sure have a lot of fucking interruptions,” he noted pointedly.

  My mouth snapped shut.

  “I was looking for a prototype. When we raided the Hermes offices, we also raided Szekely’s compound. There was nothing — and no one — inside by the time we got there. The entire place was cleaned out.”

  I felt my eyebrows go up in curiosity, though I still didn’t understand how this translated to me being in danger.

  “Someone tipped him off. Someone on my team.” His anger was apparent, suffused in every word that escaped his tight-pressed lips. “Szekely has a lot of money. His bribes have carried him a long way.”

  I couldn’t keep myself in check any longer. “And this matters to me because…”

  His eyes locked on mine and the expression on his face was so serious, I felt my stomach flip in foreboding. “Because, in the past year, everyone who was even remotely involved with the Szekely operation — from the couriers to the men who raided that facility by my side — has wound up dead.”

  “What?” I breathed in disbelief.

  “They’re dead — the girls you worked with, the men on my team. Someone is hunting them down and killing them. A professional — the hits are clean, execution style.” His voice was low, each word intent. “You are in serious danger. Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

  Trust him. Trust him. Was he freaking kidding?

  I stared at him, torn between laughter and tears. His words seemed ludicrous, but they had their intended effect — I was scared, even if I didn’t fully believe him. Each word he spoke, each expression on his face was so convincing, it made me falter for a moment.

  But then I remembered this was the same man who’d deceived me once before. The man who’d fooled me so thoroughly, so successfully, I’d thought I was in love with him.

  “I don’t believe a damn word you say.” My voice was cold. “You’re a liar. You’ve proven that in the past. Who’s to say you aren’t lying now?”

  “I’m not lying.” His words were adamant. “You think I was the only one watching your house, waiting for you to slip up and come home? If they know where you are, you’ll be dead before you can so much as reach for that pretty little pistol you keep waving around.”

  “I heard what you had to say.” I stared at him blankly, careful to conceal all the pain and heartbreak that was tearing me up inside. “Now, give me the goddamned keys before I shoot you with this pretty little pistol. It might be small, but it shoots straight and true. And its bullets will kill you just as quick.”

  He stared at me for a long moment before nodding and tossing the keys by my feet. “Fine. It’s your funeral.”

  Without taking my eyes or my gun off him, I crouched down and scooped up the keys.

  “I’ll stay here for another day, in case you change your mind. There’s a cabin in the clearing just through those woods.” His words were flat as he gestured to the copse of trees off the dirt road. “If you come back before tomorrow at midnight, I can keep you safe. If you don’t…”

  He didn’t finish the thought.

  I didn’t speak another word as I backed away from him toward the driver’s side door — I had nothing left to say and, frankly, I wasn’t sure I could even form words. My anger was wearing off and the brave face I’d worn for the past fifteen minutes was splintering with each passing second. Seeing him was simply too painful — the ache of it overrode every other sensation, until I was crushed beneath the weight of my own broken heart.

  I climbed into the car and immediately locked the doors behind me, not releasing my gun as I shoved the keys in the ignition and started the engine. My eyes were trained on the rearview mirror, watching to see if he would try to stop me.

  He didn’t.

  He stood on the dirt road, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans, and stared at me through the glass with a look on his face that almost brought tears to my eyes. That careful expressionless mask he always wore slipped as he watched me leave, and his eyes swirled with something that looked a lot like regret. Maybe even longing.

  I forced myself to look away, with an internal reminder that nothing he said, did, or showed me was trustworthy. Once a liar, always a liar.

  Right?

  So why was my stupid, foolish heart begging me to stop the car and go back to him, even as I raced down the road and left him in a cloud of tire dust?

  Chapter Forty-Three: WESTON

  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.

  Chapter Forty-Four: FAITH

  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 y
ou 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.