Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

  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.

  Overwhelmed by distress, I didn’t process the roaring sound until it was right on top of me, skidding to a stop in front of my car, mere inches from my body. The motorcycle was so close I could feel the heat its engine emitted, sizzling the hairs on my arm. Its steady rumble was so loud it hurt my ears, but its rider was a one I recognized easily.

  Black bike. Black leather. Black helmet. Black jeans. Black eyes.

  Black heart.

  A hand stretched down to me. “Let’s go,” he yelled.

  I knew that voice. Still, I hesitated.

  I was frozen with fear and indecision. Caught between two choices, neither of which I liked.

  He cursed, loudly, and ducked down to grab my wrist in a bruising grip.

  “Get on the damn bike, Red, or I’m leaving without you,” he hissed, tugging hard on my arm. “And you’ll be dead.”

  The jarring sounds of a gun firing, of a bullet scoring the metal of my car, finally shook me out of my stupor. My hand clasped his so hard I thought I’d break his fingers as I scrambled to my feet and swung my leg over the back of the bike. My ass had barely settled on the seat when he took off, the tires screeching noisily against the tarmac as the bike skidded into gear.

  I somehow managed to wrap one arm around his waist and hold onto my duffel bag with the other as we sped away, leaving my rental car — and my stomach — behind.

  I couldn’t think about the fact that I’d almost just died, or that Wes had saved me. All my energy was concentrated on not falling off the damn bike as we flew down side streets and alleyways, cutting a path so muddled, I knew no one would ever be able to trail us. The bike hurled around a hairpin turn, tilting at such a steep angle I feared my foot would scrape pavement, and I saw my life flash for the second time in less than ten minutes. Tucking my head against Wes’ back, I hugged his chest in a death grip and squeezed my thighs against his like a vise.

  “Trying to asphyxiate me, Red?” he yelled, once we’d left the city behind in favor of a secluded back road.

  “Could you blame me?” I muttered, loosening my grip marginally.

  He laughed and accelerated until I felt moisture gather in my eyes from the sheer speed of the wind against my face.

  At least, I told myself the wind was the reason for my tears.

  Chapter Forty-Five: FAITH

  PUPPET MASTER

  Ten hours later, I was back where I’d started — on a dirt road in the middle of the woods, with only the man who’d destroyed my life for company. At least this time I wasn’t falling out of a trunk.

  I was, however, so exhausted, I nearly fell off the back of the motorcycle by the time we slowed to a stop. As the hours had ticked by, it became a monumental effort to keep my eyes from drooping closed or my arms from slackening.

  It was fully dark now, and a million stars blanketed the night sky overhead. The only sound besides our quiet footfalls was the chorus of countl
ess cricket legs, chirping in unison. We didn’t speak as he wheeled the bike off the road into the trees. There was no path that I could see, but I followed along mutely, too tired to care much where he was leading me. Between being kidnapped by the man I hated for ruining my life, finding out that my best friend was dead, being nearly murdered myself, and then being rescued by said life-ruining ex-love… this had pretty much been the worst day of my life.

  I was ready to close my eyes, fall asleep, and let it come to an end before any more bad shit could happen.

  Like the zombie apocalypse. Or a nuclear bomb.

  Because, at this point, those were the only things that could actually make this day worse.

  Or, so I thought, until we made it through the woods to a small clearing and I saw the tiny, one bedroom cabin I’d be forced to share for the foreseeable future with the man who’d broken my heart.

  “I hope you’re not a cover-hog,” Wes said, his voice light. “There’s only one bed.”

  Fuck.

  ***

  The smoky scent of a blown-out match still drifted in the stale cabin air. I could see the concern on his face, illuminated by the faint yellow light of the lantern. I knew he didn’t understand why I’d gone from crazed to comatose in the few hours that had passed since he last saw me.

  “Here.” He passed me a cup of water.

  I nodded in thanks, wrapping my hands around the glass and taking a small sip. My throat felt hoarse, like I’d been screaming at the top of my lungs, though in truth I hadn’t made a sound for hours. The grief, the fury, the resentment I felt were so thick, they filled my chest cavity, blocked my airway. There was no outlet — I was choking on them.

  “We’ll be safe here. I bought this place a few years back, in case I ever needed to disappear. It’s completely off the grid.” He walked to the front windows and pulled the curtains firmly closed. “In a few days, this will all be over. Then you can…” He trailed off and turned to glance at me with look I couldn’t quite decipher.

  I raised one eyebrow in question.

  He swallowed roughly. “Then… you can go back to your life.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then dropped my eyes to the floor so he couldn’t read the sadness in them.

  There was no going back. I couldn’t return to pretending that my past didn’t exist, that Margot hadn’t died.

  My happy, uncomplicated life in New York was over.

  A few minutes passed in silence. There was nothing to say — there was everything to say. And yet, I had no words.

  “If you’re worried about your car — don’t. The agency has people who’ll take care of it,” he assured me. “It won’t be a problem.”

  I nodded robotically. I didn’t give a shit about my car. Whether my rental deposit covered things like bullet holes or airport abandonment was the farthest thing from my mind, at the moment.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked abruptly, stepping closer to me. His voice was gentle.

  I shook my head.

  “Are you scared?”

  Another head shake.

  “Well, then what the hell is the matter with you?” Though his words were gruff, his voice was soft as a whisper — like he was talking to a lost child. If I’d had the energy, I would’ve found it condescending.

  I glanced up at him, my eyes empty.

  Watching my face, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I’ve never heard you be silent for this long. Frankly, it’s freaking me out.”

  I cleared my throat, but my voice still cracked when I spoke. “What would you like me to say?”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Anything. Cry, scream, yell if you want to. Call me a bastard. Threaten to shoot me. Hell, I don’t know.” He blew a breath through his lips. “Just not this mute shit.”

  I let the duffel fall from my fingertips, listened to the gentle thud of the bag as it hit the floor. My purse soon followed suit.

  “Margot’s dead.” I said the words in a voice devoid of feeling.

  I saw his eyes widen slightly as his gaze roamed my face, finally recognizing the traces of grief there. He lifted his hand, reaching out as if to offer comfort, but caught himself and stopped before his fingers made contact with my skin. His hand fell uselessly back to his side. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it.

  “Red… I’m sorry.”

  The tears came, then — huge, wracking, silent sobs that shook my shoulders — and I felt his hand settle on my arm in a light, hesitant stroke. The feeling of his palm against my skin, touching me with kindness, was unbearable.

  Shaking it off, I stumbled blindly away from him until the back of my legs hit the bed and I collapsed onto it. I stared down at my hands as tears tracked down my cheeks, refusing to face him in this moment of indisputable weakness.

  “Red—” His voice was close, scant feet away, but I didn’t look up.

  “Just go away,” I gasped out in a broken voice. “Just leave me alone.”

  A few seconds later, I heard the creaky screen door swing closed at his back as he followed my orders and disappeared outside.

  It was the loneliest sound I’d ever heard.

  ***

  The cabin was pitch black when I opened my eyes.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep, but considering it was the middle of the night and I still felt like I’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, I knew it hadn’t been too long. My eyes swept the cabin, struggling to adjust to the dark as they took in the space fully for the first time.

  Earlier, I’d been in such a cloud of exhaustion and grief, I hadn’t even bothered to look around. Now, I saw the single-room dwelling had stacked-log walls, a tiny kitchenette, and a curtained off bathroom area. To call the space rustic would be generous.

  The “shower” consisted of a large copper tub with a wall spigot. Judging by the ache in my back, the mattress hadn’t been updated for at least twenty years. There was a single burner on the wood stove, an icebox smaller than the mini-fridge I’d kept in my college dorm, and a lumpy red crocheted carpet spread across the hardwood floor.

  The cottage wasn’t entirely without its charms, though — even my city-dwelling eyes could appreciate the simple beauty of the place.

  One wall was taken up entirely by an imposing stone fireplace, its mantle covered with more than a dozen wide, white pillar candles. The bed, uncomfortable as it may be, was covered with a soft down comforter and a warm quilt of so many shades of green, it looked more like the forest floor than a blanket. Thick wooden beams supported a high, peaked ceiling.

  It was quietly romantic, its simplicity lending a homey, lived-in feeling that put me at ease.

  I could’ve lived without all the dust, though.

  A colossal sneeze erupted from my nose, fracturing the quiet. Not ten seconds later, I heard the screen swing open.

  Wes hovered in the doorway and our eyes instantly met in the darkness. Seconds dragged into minutes as we stared at one another silently, each daring the other to speak first. And in that moment, as the air around us charged with memories of broken promises and betrayals, I could still feel them — those invisible strings between us, binding us together. Tying our souls in unbreakable knots. They were there, even after all these years. But this time, I saw them differently.

  He wasn’t a marionette, like me.

  He was the puppet master.

  He’d controlled it all. Every decision he’d ever made had, with no more effort than the flick of a puppeteer’s wrist, changed my life. He’d pinched his fingers, tugged on a loose thread, and watched my whole damn world unravel. I’d had no more control than a doll on strings.

  I curled myself into a ball and tried to fight off my shivers as the chilled air seeped into my bones — November nights were cold, this far north. Not as bad as New York, of course, but in jeans and a thin silk blouse, I soon found my teeth chattering.

  He noticed.

  With a sigh, he walked inside and headed for the fir
eplace. Barely a minute later, cheery flames were burning brightly in the hearth, filling the cabin with warmth. I tried not to be overly obvious as I edged closer to the fire and rubbed my hands together.

  Circulation eventually returned to my frozen fingers. When I looked up, my eyes found him leaning against the wall beside the mantle, staring at me.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded toward the fire.

  “You expect me to thank you?” I laughed — a bitter, brittle sound. “For what? Nearly getting me killed… again?”

  His eyes narrowed. “How about for saving your life?”

  “You never would have had to save my life in the first place, if you’d just left me the hell alone!”

  “Trust me,” he drawled. “If I could go back in time and never cross your path, I would.”

  His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I jumped to my feet. “Trust you? That’s a funny joke.”

  His stare turned to a glare.

  “I don’t even know your real name! Whoever you are, you’re sure as shit not Wesley Adams, pharmaceutical researcher.” I heaved in a breath and took a step closer to him. “You lied to me then, you’re probably lying to me now. How do I know you aren’t the one in league with Szekely? How do I know you’re not the one who killed Margot?” Tears sprang to my eyes as I spat out the accusation.

  He recoiled as though I’d slapped him.

  “So, that’s your opinion of me,” he said, his eyes wide and his words carefully casual. “Thank you, for enlightening me so… enthusiastically.”

  He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me a second longer.

  I opened my mouth to apologize, then snapped it shut again, feeling uncomfortable as inexplicable remorse churned in the pit of my stomach. He reached the door and turned his head over his shoulder, as though he was about to say something else.