The Red Ledger_2 Page 3

  “Nothing could have made me stay,” I finally say. “Not after Tristan.”

  He can’t mask his grimace. “For Christ’s sake, Isabel. You need to let him go. All he ever brought you was heartache. Let him go.” He shakes me slightly with that last demand.

  As if any amount of time or manner of well-meaning advice could change my heart.

  “He found me.” My admission is nearly carried away by the breeze.

  He freezes. “Tristan?”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  He takes a step back, breaking contact. Several seconds pass as he seems to absorb this new information.

  “Why would I?”

  “He’s different, Dad. He’s in trouble, and so am I.”

  He searches my gaze, his posture rigid. “What kind of trouble?”

  “He…” I swallow hard. This is the moment I’ve dreaded. Admitting the awful truth of what’s come to pass. Tristan’s role in it is salt on the wound. “He was hired to kill me.”

  My father pales. “Are you serious?”

  Something seems to click, an unspoken understanding that things are more dire than he realized.

  “Once he found out who I was, we took off. He got me out of Brazil. I used a fake passport to get home, but he’s worried they’re not going to give up that easily. We need to find out who’s behind all this.”

  He flickers his gaze to mine. “Are you sure this isn’t some game?”

  “Dad, this isn’t a game. People are dead. I’ve seen things…”

  I close my eyes against the terrible memories. My thoughts pivot to the men guarding the gates of Mateus’s compound. Sharp bolts of sound. Instant results. White rocks bleeding red.

  When I open my eyes, his are wide with panic. “Isabel, let’s get you home. We can figure this out there.”

  “Wait.” I step back. I can’t bring myself to tell him I can’t go with him. Not yet. “Who would want to hurt me? Someone wants me dead. Do you have an enemy, someone who may be trying to get to you through me?”

  His brows furrow. “No. I mean…” His focus darts around as if he’s pinging between all the possibilities. “I’ve always been very careful. Hell, I don’t even wear a wedding ring so no one assumes I have a family at home. If someone intended to send a message, I’d have gotten it by now. Why anyone would want to hurt you is madness.”

  Maybe so, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still running for my life from the people who turned Tristan into the killer he’s become.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to Tristan after he enlisted?”

  My father’s frown deepens. “If he’s in trouble, he can fend for himself. All that matters is you’re safe now. You’re home, and I can take care of the rest.”

  His indifference toward Tristan riles me.

  “We’re tied up in this together now. I’m not coming home until I know why he was sent for me.”

  He hesitates. “He’s here with you? Where is he?”

  “Close,” I say hesitantly.

  He works his jaw. “Listen, he’s gotten himself mixed up with the wrong people. That’s not your fault.”

  “It’s not his fault either.”

  “Stop defending him, Isabel. For God’s sake, when are you ever going to get it through your head? The kid is a loser. He was on the wrong path long before he met you. I did what I could, but—”

  “Stop it!”

  I huff out a few shaky breaths. Familiar anxiety ripples through my limbs. Suddenly I’m eighteen again, defending myself. Defending Tristan.

  I love him. They can’t keep us apart. It’s my life.

  The old song weaves into this new dilemma.

  My father stills, his gaze searching mine. Defiance meeting defiance. Finally he breaks his stare and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “I looked him up in the database at work after he broke things off with you. You were miserable. I thought maybe I could track him down and give you some solace. He went on a few deployments overseas. His last mission in Afghanistan was a bloodbath. He got out of it alive, and then he transitioned out. I figured he’d lost a limb or something bad enough that it’d just end up breaking your heart all over again.”

  A cold, sobering wind rushes between us. Gratitude and grief hold me up. An enduring sadness with what’s come to pass. Relief that Tristan’s fate wasn’t even worse.

  “He lost his memory, Dad. He doesn’t remember anything before that last mission. He doesn’t remember me.”

  He winces. “That can’t be true.”

  “I believe him,” I say. “If I hadn’t recognized him, I think he would have killed me. Whatever they did to him, they turned him into a killer. And because he didn’t go through with it, they’re after both of us.”

  “Who? Who’s they?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out. Tristan has a contact in the organization. A manager, I guess. Her name is Jay. He doesn’t know much else about them other than she calls them Company Eleven. He gets dossiers on hits and is wired the money when it’s done.” I’m heartbroken all over again as I utter the words aloud. “I have a feeling he was pretty good at his job.”

  My father rakes his fingers along the side of his short, silvering hair, betraying his anxiety. “Christ.”

  My thoughts drift to the red notebook. I’d found it in my things on the flight back to DC. I’d studied the names in it, each with a number beside it. Dozens of them were scratched onto the lined pages in his script. He might call it insurance, but I’m pretty sure it’s a ledger of all the people he’s been hired to kill.

  “Will you look into it more?”

  “Of course. I’ll find anything I can. For now, let’s get you home. Lucia is worried sick. I haven’t seen her this way since Mariana…”

  He closes his eyes, and instantly I know. If my mother thinks her daughter is dead, she’s reliving the worst kind of pain.

  I take my father’s hand and squeeze it firmly. “Tell her I’m fine. I am. But I can’t come home yet. I have to lie low until we figure out what’s going on.”

  His eyes go wide with panic. “Isabel, no. You have to come home.”

  “If someone is still looking for me, it’s the first place they’ll go,” I say, mimicking Tristan’s warning.

  “Then they don’t know who they’re dealing with.” Something about the finality in my father’s tone gives me pause. He’s gone from concerned father to something else. A man to be reckoned with.

  I withdraw a piece of paper from my jacket and hand it to him. “This is the number you can reach me at. If you find anything—”

  “You can rest assured I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Isabel.” He clutches the paper tightly in his hand, not speaking for a long time. “How am I supposed to let you go back to him after what you’ve just told me?”

  I think through a dozen reassurances. Most he won’t believe. That Tristan would never hurt me. That he’ll keep me safe. Everything boils down to the same thing. It’s my choice. My life. My trust. My mistake.

  He already knows this.

  I reach for him. I’m not sure he’s ever hugged me so tightly or for so long.

  “I need you to be careful, Isabel. Be smart.”

  “I will,” I whisper. “I promise.”

  When we pull away after several minutes, I can’t mistake the tears in his eyes.

  “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 ca
reful 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 would 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 h
ers 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.