Reborn Page 13

  “Bye, Dad.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tristan

  I watch as Morgan gets into his car on the opposite side of the park and speeds off. The meeting with Isabel could have played out a few ways. I’m glad I didn’t need to intervene. I step out and meet Isabel as she approaches the car.

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine.” The look on her face isn’t promising.

  “Fine?”

  “He doesn’t know much, but he seems determined to find out.”

  “You asked him—”

  “Everything you said, yes. He’s too careful to have enemies. At least any that he knows of. No one’s reached out to him.”

  “What else?”

  She bites her lip. “He said he knew about your mission. The one that went wrong. He called it a bloodbath. Said you transitioned out afterwards and that was it. He…”

  “He what?”

  “He still hates you, I think.”

  I roll that around in my head. With Isabel’s life at stake, I wasn’t expecting her father to be clinging to old grudges. “He said that?”

  “He didn’t have to,” she murmurs.

  She tightens her hold around her midsection as a strong gust of wind rolls in.

  I resist the urge to tuck her against me and warm her. I don’t trust myself to touch her. Lying beside her last night was almost more than I could bear. Thankfully the day’s exhaustion pulled me under before I could act on any of the sordid thoughts that come to mind every time she’s within reach.

  “He knows you’re with me?”

  “Yes, I told him.”

  “If he let you leave, he can’t hate me that much.”

  She sighs heavily. “I think he could see in my eyes that this was serious. I mean, he’s been wondering if I’ve been dead this whole time.”

  “And you believed him? Everything he said?”

  She nods wordlessly.

  We should drive off and get out of sight. I have no idea where we’ll go next. I’m not ready to hole up in the apartment again yet.

  I’m too edgy after what Isabel’s told me. I never pegged her for gullible, so when she tells me she believes her father is clueless about who’s put the hit out on her, I’m not sure what to think. As connected as Morgan Foster is within the CIA, he’s the natural choice.

  I kick one of the tires. “He has to know something.”

  She crosses her arms and leans against the hood. “I’m sure if he knows anything that would get me out of this mess, he’d tell me. He seemed shocked. In disbelief. It’s a sentiment I’m familiar with lately. I recognized it when I saw it.”

  I hesitate to reiterate my rule about trusting people—a rule that doesn’t have exceptions. I have little doubt that some of the people in my book were marked by someone who claimed to love them.

  She straightens and comes to me. Strands of her hair play in the breeze, and her cheeks and nose are pink. She looks mussed and natural—uniquely beautiful in the most unexpected moments.

  “What now?”

  “I can’t go back to the apartment right now,” I say.

  “Do you detest her that much?”

  I laugh roughly. “You should ask her the same question.”

  She frowns. “Did she say something to you?”

  “Yeah, I’m a real piece of shit for breaking your heart the way I did, and if I even think about hurting you again, she’s going to hunt me down and castrate me.” I lift my eyebrows and put on a fake smile.

  She sighs. “Listen, Brienne’s just being protective. She was there for me during a difficult time. She takes it personally that I’m with you again.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter. “As far as I’m concerned, the less time we spend there, the better.”

  She seems thoughtful a moment. Then she reaches out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

  I don’t budge. “Why?”

  “You don’t want to go back to Brienne’s. I have a better idea. Let’s go for a drive.”

  “Where?”

  She closes the small space between us, pouting prettily while running her hands down my arms.

  “What are you doing?”

  She lifts on her toes and barely brushes her lips over mine, blindsiding me as she slips her hand into my jacket pocket.

  “Stealing your keys,” she whispers with a smirk.

  Little things start to register as soon as we exit the highway. The neighborhoods on the outskirts of Baltimore leave much to be desired. We’re a far cry from Rio’s favelas, but whatever street sense I’ve retained tells me that we need to be on guard more here than we were in Arlington. Isabel takes a few more turns. The way she stretches her neck forward and squints toward the numbers on the houses tells me we’re close.

  “It’s one of these,” she says.

  My palms sweat, and I’m starting to regret the decision to let Isabel take us here. But, like her, I’m curious. A little too restless to see if being in my old neighborhood will bring back more memories. Maybe a few that aren’t so heart-wrenching.

  We pass an abandoned bus stall. A convenience store with a yellow awning and a few people lingering under it. Closely set houses go on and on until she slows to a stop in front of one. She puts the car into park, and we both stare out the passenger-side window.

  I know this is it. The house is a few paces off the street, distinguishable from its neighbors only by the red eviction notice stapled to the door, almost obscured by a board nailed across it. Somehow I just know I’ve scaled the front steps a thousand times. Heard the door creak every time I opened it. Shivered when the air inside wasn’t as warm as it should be on cold winter days.

  I get out and scan up and down the street. Kids with backpacks walk by in groups. School must have just let out. Isabel comes near, welcome warmth at my side. A few people look at us but move on, unconcerned by our presence.

  As I stare at the abandoned place, gunshots fire through my memories. Sickness permeates my gut, yet I crave more. Something more than visions of my mother’s bloody body in the street. More than my screams.

  I move forward, no longer tentative. I make soundless steps, the whooshing of my own breathing and heartbeat drowning out the finer details. At the door, I slam my foot against the board, cracking it.

  “Tristan!” Isabel’s concerned voice fades into the background.

  Without hesitating, I kick it again. I don’t care. I’ve got to get in. I bash the door twice more until the jamb cracks and it swings open with a high-pitched scrape. I duck under the busted board.

  One step inside, and I’m paralyzed.

  Being here feels like a dream—one where I’m drawn forward into a place I’ve never been, but somehow I know all the rooms. Not that there are many. A kitchen with filthy linoleum and a rotten odor to match. A narrow hallway that leads to a bedroom. I can’t tell what color the carpet is supposed to be. Cheap yellowing curtains are bunched in the window that offers a view of the next house a few feet away. It’s dark. Cracking paint spiders the dirty walls.

  I turn when I hear Isabel catch up. Her eyes are wide, a deep green in this light. Anxiety rolls off her. She’s worried we’ll get caught. I know in my bones that no one around here cares about us or this place.

  “This was my room.”

  She wrings her fingers together and nods quickly.

  I look around again, disgusted. Granted, it’s been six years, but the house couldn’t have looked much better when I called it home.

  I walk to the window. Nothing to see, but hell, it’s a window. Dust is caked on the sill. Isabel is beside me again, resting her head against my arm. Our fingers intertwine, palms meet. I reach for the comfort her touch brings, but embarrassment overwhelms everything.

  “Either there’s something really wrong with me, Isabel, or there’s something wrong with you.”

  Her dark brows draw together.

  I’m sick with this place and the fact that she’s here. That she was ever here. “Why woul
d you be here with me? How could you stand it?”

  Her lips part, her countenance awash with innocence and understanding at once. “Because I loved you. I wanted to be with you more than anyone else. All the time. It didn’t matter where we were.”

  I clench my jaw. Nothing’s changed. I’m the worst person she could have possibly brought back into her life. I’m convinced of it. “I’ve never been good for you.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Maybe I was good for you, though.”

  “That’s not enough. There’s no reason for you to sink this low. You should have left me…” I drop my hand from hers and pace away, clawing my fingernails across my scalp. The discomfort brings me back. Out of the dream. Into the sobering present. “You should have left me before I left you. You brought this on yourself. God, Isabel… What were you thinking?”

  She comes close again, reaching for me, but I brush her away. I can’t handle her touch. Her eyes glisten and her lips tremble.

  “I wish I could fucking burn this place down.”

  Her face is tight with pain. “Not me,” she whispers. “You can wish it away all you want. But this was real, Tristan. We were real. I didn’t care about what you had or didn’t have. We were with each other for the only reasons that mattered. We filled a space inside each other that only we could. Okay? And it didn’t matter what side of town you were from.”

  “And what about now? What about the fact that I fucking kill people for a living and you’re teaching English to school kids? How much further apart can we fall before you give up?”

  She doesn’t answer, so I press on.

  “Because I know you haven’t yet. When are you going to give up?” I shove a hard hand through my hair again. “I wish we’d never…”

  I stop myself and try to scour the images of her naked body writhing under my tongue. It’s impossible. I’ll have those memories forever. I’m certain of it. They’re burned in. Same way I’m certain they’re burned into her. Same way the man I was keeps taking up space in her heart.

  “Let’s go.” I walk swiftly out.

  “Tristan, wait.”

  I don’t wait. I hurry back to the street. A few more people meander by. No sign of the local authorities. As I suspected, no one cares about the busted door or our brief tour of the slum I once called home. I get to the driver’s side and realize Isabel still has the keys.

  She meets me there. “Tristan, you’re upset. You shouldn’t drive like this.”

  “Give me the fucking keys.”

  Her eyes narrow into angry slits. “Just because you’re hurting, it doesn't give you the right to be such an asshole.”

  With that, she slaps the keys into my palm and circles the vehicle.

  We get in, and I gun the engine, too eager to put this shithole in my rearview.

  “Turn left at the next stop sign.”

  “I know the way back,” I snap.

  On the hour ride home, we don’t speak. The radio plays quietly, but my thoughts are too loud to notice. Isabel’s posture is tense. She doesn’t make eye contact, which is fine. I’m not in the mood to make her feel better. I’m too wrapped up in my own confused emotions.

  We park and go up to the apartment. Inside, Brienne is nestled on the couch with large headphones covering her ears, deep in virtual battle.

  I pause near the doorway. “I’m going for a drive.”

  Isabel turns back, her shoulders soften. “Tristan…”

  I want to stay and make things right with her. But the part of me that needs to pace and be pissed off wins.

  “Here.” I take her phone out of her coat pocket and program my number into it. “Call me if you need me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just for a drive to clear my head, all right? I’ll be back soon.”

  We’re a few inches apart, close enough to feel the effect she has on me. I can’t spend another night that way. And sleep won’t save me this time.

  “I’ll see you later, Isabel.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Isabel

  I wake up abruptly. No sirens. No jarring sounds. The bed is empty, and somehow I know Tristan never made it home. I scramble for my phone. I’m ready to start thinking the worst when I see a text from him.

  Taking care of a few things today.

  See you tonight.

  I don’t bother acknowledging his message or asking for details he’ll never share. This is who he is. Cryptic and moody. Tender one minute, indifferent the next. Two steps forward, one step back.

  Our detour to his old place seemed like progress until he lashed out. I’ve never seen him so rattled, so vulnerable. Watching recognition hit his features was both heartening and heartbreaking. Not only because of the words he hurled at me but the loneliness hidden in them. The utter emptiness around them. I can be there for him, but I’ll never know what this must be like.

  How much of his memory was triggered in those moments? I worry he’s rethinking how much more he wants to relive. Especially if he’s intent on keeping me at arm’s length or disappearing for hours or days at a time, leaving me to wonder where he is or if he’s even alive.

  I navigate to a second message from a familiar DC number. My father’s.

  Checking in to make sure you’re okay.

  I type out a quick reply.

  I’m fine. Did you find anything?

  Three little dots animating below the message indicate he’s typing. The small connection makes me smile. He may hate Tristan and most of my life choices, but he’s still my dad. I’ve still missed him, and of all people, I’m grateful to have him fighting for me and trying to find the truth.

  Working on it.

  I’m hit with disappointment. Either nothing has turned up, or he’s not sharing it with me. A moment passes until he’s typing again.

  Tristan attended a rehab center for vets

  after the army. No other trace of him after.

  I fall back on the pillow and let this new information sink in. Tristan never mentioned a rehab center. I don’t think he remembers anything about his recovery. Maybe this could get me closer to finding out how he ended up in the clutches of Jay and in the company of assassins.

  I get up, get dressed, and go make coffee. As I wait for it to brew, I find Brienne’s laptop. I open it, pull up a new browser window, and type in a search for veteran rehabilitation centers near the DC area, assuming he came here afterward. A handful pop up, all government-run VA clinics and offices. All but one. Trinity House. I click on the website and am presented with a large photo of several smiling men and women sitting around a courtyard. Helping our service men and women transition into civilian life. I read their mission statement and learn that they’re privately funded with a waiting list for new clients. They seem nothing like the run-of-the-mill government programs typically offered to returning vets.

  I try to imagine a broken and battered Tristan coming to a place like that. Knowing nothing of his past. Having no one to turn to for support, financial or otherwise. If he was this close, I could have been there for him. And I would have. My heart hurts when I think of it.

  I shoot off a quick text to my father.

  Trinity House?

  I put my phone back in my pocket and go to the coffeemaker, willing it to create its liquid magic a little quicker.

  I hear Brienne’s shuffling footsteps behind me. Her face is swollen from sleep. Her hair leaves much to be desired, and she’s wearing an old GW hoodie that I’ve seen her in at least a few hundred times.

  “What’s up, roomie?”

  She groans and takes two large mugs out of the cupboard, sliding one toward me. “Bree need coffee.”

  I chuckle as she takes the half-full pot out of its cradle and fills both our mugs. She returns it, and the coffeemaker resumes its percolating gurgles.

  “What are you up to today?” I finally ask.

  She goes to the refrigerator and pours some flavored creamer into her mug. “I have the week off, and my
favorite thing to do is nothing, so that’s what I’m up to.”

  My phone buzzes, and I take it out of my pocket. A one-word reply from my father’s number.

  Yes.

  Then, a moment later.

  Mom wants to see you.

  I look up at Brienne. “I have to go out and run a few errands. Want to come with?”

  She narrows her eyes slightly. “Who’s going to take us? Tristan? Where is he, anyway?”

  Her question is valid. I’m not sure how I’ll get to the rehab center or how I’ll disguise any of what I plan to do as “errands.” Brienne doesn’t have a car, I’m out of cash, and my credit cards are off-limits. I may not be out of favors though.

  “No, Tristan’s not around today,” I say absently. I search for Makanga’s number on the phone and type out a quick text.

  Can you give me a ride?

  Brienne moves to the couch and settles in her nest, covering herself in a throw blanket. I follow her over. I have one knee on the couch when my phone rings. Makanga’s number displays.

  I hold up a finger, indicating I’ll be back, and answer the call.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Someone called an Uber,” he says, his deep voice dry with humor.

  I laugh. “It’s just a quick trip. An hour there and back.”

  “What’s Red doing?”

  “He’s doing his own thing today. Can you help me out?”

  “Fine, but my rate’s gone up.”

  I roll my eyes. “I think the enormous stack of cash I gave you the other day ought to cover me for today.”

  He exhales a sigh. “Yeah, all right. Be there in five.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hang up. By the time I return to Brienne, she’s already lost in another round of Fortnite. Her empty cup has joined the other dirty dishes on the coffee table. Her eyes are glued to the television, seemingly oblivious to me.