The Red Ledger Read online

  “I keep my treasures locked away as well. You must be very important to him.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think so.”

  The humor flees Mateus’s features. “He does, Isabel. You are a miracle. The key—”

  “To his memories. I know.” I toss up my hand and try to ignore the burn of the truth.

  “It hurts you,” he says with a cadence that feels like a direct hit, “that he doesn’t remember you.”

  “How could it not?”

  “Do you think you can get him to remember again?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea.”

  He gazes at me silently, as if in challenge. I’ve been so busy making sense of our mad dash from the city and his odd confession that I’ve hardly considered the possibility. Could I really make Tristan remember what he’s lost? Could I possibly have that much power?

  “Isabel! Where are you?”

  I jolt back at the sound of Tristan’s voice bellowing through the house.

  Precious seconds pass, and then he’s at the sliding door. He looks around the garden but doesn’t notice us right away.

  “Right here, friend,” Mateus says loudly but with that even quality he possesses that seems to lull one into believing everything is as it should be.

  Tristan is there a moment later, and then I have two men staring at me like I’ve just committed a cardinal sin. Tristan is wearing only his black jeans, a dark T-shirt twisted in his fist. His skin is flushed, and his wet hair sends rivulets down his neck. A few travel down his chest, journeying across a map of scars that mar at least a dozen points on his skin. Most are white with age, ghosts of the pain inflicted upon his flesh. Some are clean and straight. Others are jagged and ugly, raised and broad from lack of proper suturing. Each one is a fresh tear in the inner fabric of my being, claiming space on the landscape of my own invisible scars.

  “Tristan…” I whisper his name as heat burns behind my eyes. Who did this to him?

  “What are you doing out here?” He darts his gaze over me, no doubt arriving at the same conclusions as Mateus.

  I tighten my grip around the strap of my backpack and speak as calmly as my clenched jaw will allow. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

  Mateus’s raised eyebrow answers for him. Still, my focus is on Tristan. I cling to the anger that motivated me to run. But his scarred body has me in knots, the compass of my will spinning wildly.

  Mateus offers the knife. Tristan swipes it from him and jerks his thumb toward the house.

  “Inside. Now.”

  “Karina will have lunch for us shortly.” Mateus hesitates a second. “Or perhaps you should go into town. Explore a little,” he says coolly as he turns toward Tristan. “You have things to discuss, after all.”

  Hope springs in me at the prospect of escaping the property, even with Tristan, but his grimace dashes every ounce of it.

  “We’re not leaving.”

  Mateus squares his body with Tristan’s a fraction more. “Why? Petrópolis is big enough to get lost in. You said yourself you have time.”

  I still at the firmness in Mateus’s tone. I care less about his cryptic challenge than the fact that he’s facing off with Tristan, a man he’s already admitted is truly dangerous. Can Mateus set him off as easily as I seem to be able to?

  “Is this your way of asking me to leave?”

  “You know it isn’t.”

  A moment of silence passes between them, and I resist the urge to back away and give the two men space.

  “To capture what we most desire, sometimes we must first learn to let go,” Mateus utters quietly.

  Tristan is silent, his body a physical representation of his mood, rigid with frustration.

  He looks at me, jerks his shirt over his head, and punches his arms through the sleeves. He motions for my bag. “Leave your things.”

  I don’t move. My grip tightens on the bag. My identity. Money. I’m wary to part with either under the present circumstances.

  “Isabel.” His sharp tone nips at the edge of my control.

  I sling the bag at him in one sudden motion. “Tristan,” I hiss.

  I pass him and return to the house, but not before catching the curl of Mateus’s lips and a flicker of mischief in his eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TRISTAN

  I scan the busy street, up and down and back again, committing it all to memory. Petrópolis is vastly smaller than the metropolis we came from, but Mateus is right. It’s big enough to disappear in, for a little while at least, and the Carnaval celebrations don’t hurt. The people gracing the streets are raising no alarms, but I can’t escape the feeling that could change at any moment.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Isabel sits across from me.

  We’re at a little restaurant on the edge of town that Mateus recommended, but she’s barely eaten. Instead, she’s staring at me as if she’ll find a doorway to my soul. Too bad there’s no chance of that.

  “I am,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “Someone who might be here for the wrong reasons.”

  She sighs and leans her head to the side, as if all of this has become an exhausting game. “Who would that be?”

  I look around again, seeing no one of concern. Still, I take nothing for granted. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I doubt it. You’ve been acting like someone’s been chasing us since we got here.”

  “If they aren’t yet, they will be.”

  She glares at me, her expression falling somewhere between panic and skepticism. “Tristan, what the hell is going on? Why would you say that?”

  We live such different lives. We’ve been sitting here less than twenty minutes, and I’ve already grown tired of dancing around her innocent questions. I look her square in the eye, readying myself for the real panic to set in after I say what I need to.

  “Someone wants you dead.”

  She exhales, her breath audibly rushing past her trembling lips. “How… How can you know that?”

  “The important thing is that I know. Because I do, I can make sure they don’t get what they want.”

  She stares into her lap and grips her paper napkin tightly.

  “Is it the same people who put those scars on your body?”

  I shake my head slightly. I don’t know where half my scars came from, but I’m certain they’re not the same bad guys who want Isabel knocked off.

  “Different people,” I say a little softer, sensing the heaviness of this subject might send her into an emotional fit—one I’m not especially eager to deal with in public. The last thing I need is for Isabel to make a scene.

  “Why would someone want me dead?”

  Her question has merit. I’m not paid to care why someone needs to be taken out, but I’m confident Isabel hasn’t done anything to deserve a death wish. She’s a revenge hit. Her death will send a message, maybe a warning, to someone who cares about her. If I had to guess, that person is her father.

  “I’m not exactly sure why yet,” I finally say.

  “Then how do you know they want me dead? You’re talking in riddles, Tristan.”

  Her voice is edging on hysterical.

  “The less you know, the better. I’m only telling you so you know how dangerous it is to run from me when I’m the one trying to keep you safe. And right now, I am the only one who can keep you safe. Do not doubt it,” I say with finality.

  I run the words over in my head, convincing myself of them too. I need to keep her safe. Need to figure out a plan that will get us out of this mess alive.

  Or you could skip the mess and end this now. Do your job. To hell with the past.

  I wince and take another scan up and down the street.

  “If that’s all true, I suppose that explains why you’ve been so…determined.” Her voice is steadier now. She juts her chin out almost defiantly. “So what happens now? We can’t hide out at your friend’s house forever. I have a life back in Rio. I’m sur
e you do too.”

  I stir my coffee and lift the tiny red straw to my lips. I trap the tip between my teeth and contemplate my next words.

  I have a few options, most of which I’ll never tell her. I could attempt to stay in Jay’s good graces and do the job I was hired to do. Except now I’ve taken Isabel out of the city, no doubt raising suspicions about my ability to follow through. Then there’s Mateus, who’s become inexplicably driven to unearth the memories Isabel and I share.

  “You know things…”

  “About your past,” she finishes the thought. “And now you expect me to be able to fill in all the blanks while we’re here.”

  “I’m resourceful. I just need a place to start, and I can figure out most of the rest.”

  She swallows without making eye contact. “Why did you kiss me?”

  I gnash the straw a few times. “I needed you to cooperate,” I admit.

  “Right. It’s not like we were in love or anything.” Her voice gets softer as she speaks, like she’s no longer talking to me.

  But her words are an invitation I’ll never be able to accept. Whatever she still feels for me has to fade out. I’ll never be the boy of her dreams or the lover who stars in her fantasies. The mere thought of it scares me enough to believe that stealing her away from Rio was a horrible idea.

  “I’m not in love with you, Isabel.”

  She nods tightly and looks out the window. A few people walk into the shop on the corner. Her focus is fixed on the church across the street, though. Streaks of dirt stain the stucco below its windows. Three thin crosses mounted on the roof’s round arches pierce the blue afternoon sky.

  “I think this is a nightmare,” she whispers.

  “You have no idea,” I mutter, regretting it immediately.

  She looks back to me, her expression pinched with pity. Of all the things we don’t know about each other, I don’t have to explain my nightmares now. She was a firsthand witness to the effects of last night’s horrors. God knows what I said in my sleep.

  “I was with you after she died, you know.”

  “My mother,” I mutter matter-of-factly, though I’m certain a deeper pain exists somewhere inside me.

  “She was a really sweet woman. You were close. I stayed with you for a couple weeks after she died. My parents were pissed, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t leave you alone.”

  When Isabel’s soul-piercing stare creeps under my skin, it’s my turn to gaze at the church. The bright cerulean blue fence around it matches the sky, a vibrant distraction from the darkness of my dreams. Whoever my mother was, I know she died in my arms. If the recurring nightmare hasn’t confirmed it, Isabel just did.

  If these are my memories, who needs them?

  “Maybe my nightmares are better than the truth. I should just be happy with an abridged version, the version my mind lets me remember.”

  “For what it’s worth, you don’t seem happy at all.”

  I laugh at the ridiculousness of her statement. “I’d agree with you if I had any sense of the word.”

  “You never feel joy.”

  I shake my head, feeling nothing as I do. “I survive.” I try not to get killed.

  The glimmer in her eyes seems like it might spill over into actual tears. She blinks them away rapidly and points toward the church. “I’m going over there for a few minutes, if that’s okay.”

  My immediate response is Hell no, but I can’t get the words out before she rises and gets several paces ahead of me. She leaves the restaurant and crosses the street to the gate that separates the building from the curb. I chase her and catch up as she reaches for the latch on the gate.

  “Wait.” I cover her hand with mine, trying to ignore how the smallest touch affects me.

  “Wait for what?”

  There’s peace in her eyes. Sadness and confusion too, but under it all is a layer of stillness that I can hardly understand.

  “I’m not going in there,” I say firmly.

  She stares steadily at me. “Are you afraid?”

  I grimace, both at her question and the odd twist of emotions it inspires. Afraid? Of a church? It’s all I can do to hold back the nervous laugh that wants to break free.

  “No, but I’m not letting you out of my sight, which means you’re not going in there.”

  I curl my fingers over hers, reveling in the silkiness of them as I struggle with her request. “Let’s just go back—”

  A door creaks loudly. “Posso te ajudar?”

  An elderly man steps down from the entrance toward us. He’s in black garb, and a string of rosaries dangles from his neck. His skin is mottled and lined with age. One eye is clouded white. Both lower when the high noon sun catches the silver circle at Isabel’s neck.

  “São Paulo,” he says with a kind smile.

  Isabel fingers the delicate pendant of St. Paul that rests at her clavicle. I noticed it before, briefly. Noticed it first when she was moaning my name two nights ago. When I was a reflex away from ending her life. I haven’t given it much thought until now.

  I can see her pulse ticking beneath the thin chain. The charm interrupts the bare beauty of the woman who wears it. Her skin shimmers like a sea of Moroccan sand. The sharp line of her collarbone slopes to her shoulder, disappearing under her shirt.

  I memorize her. Desire I can’t understand inspires dangerous visions. Trapping her against me in the middle of the street. Declaring war with the barriers of her clothing. Baring her. The rest of her perfect skin. Inch by inch, I unveil her in my mind. The sounds she’d make under me. The fear and desire I’d recognize with a single taste.

  Something tightens in my gut at the memory of her taste. Something beyond the eagerness of her kiss. The desperation. The asking in it. No, the pure taste of her. The melding of our mouths. The familiarity of it. The way I knew her lips were mine the minute I felt them. And her tongue. The hot and greedy cavern of her perfect mouth.

  I’m ready to turn the wanton cravings into truth when her rose-colored lips curve into a soft smile for the old man. In that moment, I force myself to see her as he does. Innocent next to the likes of me. A beautiful young girl. Full of life. Clinging to faith. Hope.

  “Me chamo Antonio. Qual é o seu nome?”

  “Isabel.”

  He nods, rests his gaze on her for one thoughtful moment before lifting it to me.

  “E você. Qual é o seu nome?” he says, as if I can be lured in with such a simple request.

  The warmth I felt a moment ago in my visions of Isabel and all the carnal things I yearn to do to her crashes like a deluge to the ground beneath my feet, leaving me cold and sober.

  I’m me again, and I have no business here.

  I step away, dragging my hand away from the gate latch, disconnecting from Isabel’s defiant hold on it.

  “Tristan,” she says. “His name is Tristan Stone.”

  Isabel’s eyes storm when they meet mine, like some sort of mystic who knows all my darkest secrets. Or just a beautiful woman who knows my name…

  ISABEL

  Any fleeting comfort I felt on the doorstep of the church is swiftly ripped away when Tristan takes my hand, his grasp firm, and pulls me away from the half-blind father who would have welcomed us with open arms. I don’t know what drew me there. Perhaps a moment’s peace, but that’s become impossible now.

  I glance back at the old man, gulping down emotion I fear has no place in my current predicament. The priest draws his hand up toward the gate latch, lingering there, his eyes wide and more alert than they’d been moments ago. Tristan doesn’t give him a chance. We’re down the street. I’m tucked into the car seconds later. And we’re off, speeding through town.

  I stare at Tristan, regret and misery lodged in my throat. “Who are you?”

  “No one you know.” He jerks the gear shift, lurching us forward at a faster speed. “If you knew me, you’d know that’s the last place I belong. And what in the hell were you thinking? Do you think this is a joke?
Do you think there’s a chance someone isn’t out there right now on our scent, trying to figure out where I’ve taken you?”

  “He’s a priest. He’s harmless.”

  “Everyone can be bought. Everyone. I don’t care how compassionate or kind you think they are. Everyone has a price.”

  “You really believe that.”

  He stares blankly ahead. “Words to live by. It’s not a hard lesson. I’d suggest you learn it before you get us killed.”

  I shove a hand through my already tousled hair, incensed. “Tristan, why don’t you just take what you want from me and let me go home? If you don’t already know who my father is, believe me when I tell you that he can protect me.”

  “The people who want you dead don’t care about your father’s security clearances in DC.”

  I hesitate a moment. “If we’re not safe here, then send me home.”

  My panic climbs with his silence.

  “Tristan…”

  He turns onto the dirt road that leads to Mateus’s compound. My prison.

  “No,” he says firmly.

  The rumble of the car quiets beneath the thrumming of my blood in my ears. I’m afraid and angry. And I’m suddenly aware of what might have possessed my mother when she fought with my father. Late at night when they thought I was sleeping, I would hear her words flying—a mix of language, her voice imbued with the kind of rage I could never comprehend. Then, sometimes, I’d witness her violence. From the upstairs hallway, hidden by darkness, I’d watch my father restrain her, calm her. Beyond that, he never retaliated.

  Until this moment, I never believed I could be capable of such intensely negative emotions toward the man I loved. As I dig my fingernails into the car’s seat, I imagine doing the unthinkable. I have to get away.

  I reach for the door handle and unlatch it.

  “Isabel!”

  We swerve as Tristan reaches across the seat to pull me back. He slams on the brakes and eases the car onto the side of the narrow road.