Friendship.
When Lux and I met two years ago, I’d been alone. I hadn’t had a friend since Margot, and I’d barely known how to get myself to work in the morning, let alone strike up conversation with the stranger in the cubicle next to mine. How could I be a friend to someone when I barely knew myself?
Because I couldn’t be Faith Morrissey anymore. I refused to be that stupid girl who’d been lied to. Deceived and duped by a man with a charming, crooked smile and a few pretty words. That girl…
She was gullible. Naive. Foolish to believe, even for a minute, that things were real with him.
Men like Wes Adams simply didn’t fall for women who were scared of their own shadow. Whirlwind romances and fairytale happily-ever-afters were nothing more than Hollywood fabrications. And sad, silly girls who could no longer recognize themselves in the mirror weren’t worth anyone’s time.
I’d needed a clean slate. A fresh start. A new name and a new city, where no one would know me or my story.
And, more importantly, where no one could ever find me.
Where he could never find me.
New York had been perfect, for that. With Conor’s help, I’d gotten my new life. I’d just never anticipated that this existence would allow for things like friends or laughter. Nor had I realized that, even with the constant, throbbing pain of a broken, betrayed heart in my chest, I would be able to find happiness again.
My capacity for romantic love was gone — that was an unchangeable fact.
But my love for the rest of it — for best friends and buttery croissants, for fashion and fine bottles of wine — was very much intact.
Being heartbroken doesn’t mean you stop feeling. Just the opposite — it means you feel it all more. With your heart in fragments, every sensation is sharper, every emotion more acute. Your feelings are enhanced, like a blind man with an impeccable sense of smell, or a deaf woman whose eyes can perceive things a normal person would never recognize.
The brokenhearted are the best empaths of all.
I wasn’t numb or desensitized to the world. I experienced everything with the keen sharpness of a blade — the pain, the betrayal, the loss, the lies. The light, the love, the hope, the fear.
My heart wasn’t dead — but Faith Morrissey was.
I was Fae Montgomery, now.
And the greatest surprise of all was that despite the pain of leaving my family and everything I’d ever known behind….
I kind of liked being her.
Chapter Thirty-Nine: WESTON
GHOST STORY
She’d always said it wasn’t a fairy tale.
She’d been right. It was a ghost story.
There was a once a beautiful little girl, who stumbled upon a vicious wolf in the woods. She ignored his sharp teeth and dirty pelt. Her eyes didn’t linger on the bloodstained fur or pile of bones scattered around him. His deepest growl and most menacing glare didn’t send her running.
She only saw how dark the woods were, how lonely the wolf was — alone with only the shadows for company.
She didn’t run away, as everyone who’d come before her had done.
She pulled him out. Tugged on his paws and claws until he’d left the wild behind.
She knew a wolf could never become a pet dog. He was feral, ferocious.
She didn’t seem to mind.
She claimed him as her own, bound him inside the cage of her heart.
She loved the savage creature and tried to teach him how to exist outside the isolation of the forest.
She didn’t see that living in the wilderness wasn’t what made him wild.
The wild was inside him.
So, though the girl wrapped him tight in her embrace, though she bathed him in the warm glow of her soul…
He couldn’t help himself. It was in his nature, in the marrow of his bones, in his very blood.
There was no redemption, for a wolf.
Eventually, as he’d always known he would, he turned on the girl who’d been his salvation.
He killed her.
She became a ghost.
And he went back to the dark.
Chapter Forty: FAITH
CUTTING TIES
I was careful.
I hadn’t seen my parents in more than three years. I hadn’t been home for a visit or spoken to my siblings on the phone. I didn’t check my old email addresses or call my former voicemail boxes.
I tried not to think about California, as I settled into the chilly climate of the northeast. I learned to dress in layers and finally understood the value of a quality pair of waterproof winter boots when the first snows turned to grimy grey slush on city streets. I forgot about kale and kombucha as I learned to like greasy Chinese takeout and massive late-night pieces of New York pizza.
I walked faster, talked faster. Dressed better.
I was a new person, with no ties to my old life…. with one, tiny exception.
Margot.
See, my old roommate wasn’t exactly easy to shake. And, as she was the only person in my life who’d been fed the same bullshit “declassified” government debriefing after Budapest, she knew exactly why I’d had to start over. Why I’d run.
So I did something that broke all my new rules: I opened a P.O. Box and let her send me letters.
She was the one tie from my past I couldn’t quite sever. Maybe it was reckless, but it wasn’t like we were daily pen pals. We’d exchanged a handful of notes over the past three years, mostly when holidays and special occasions rolled around. Often, Margot sent me postcards with no return address, covered in all manner of stamps and seals from her travels across the globe. I’d grin as I read about the Croatian caves she’d spent her Christmas exploring or the sweltering Belizean jungles she’d spent her birthday trekking through. Sometimes, when she settled in one place for long enough, I’d write back and tell her about my new life in New York — but those times were few and far between.
That was the only reason I didn’t worry when three months passed without a note from her.
Then six months.
Then eight months.
The last message I’d received was a homemade Thanksgiving card in the shape of a handprint-turkey, its lopsided envelope bearing an Australian postage stamp. She’d enclosed a picture of herself posing by the Opera House with her blonde pixie cut blowing in the wind and her hands thrown up in the air. She’d sounded happy in her note — she’d loved Sydney and hoped to stay for a few months. She’d promised to write more often.
But then… nothing.
The card I sent at Christmas to her last known address went unanswered. There was no colorful birthday card in my mailbox in August when I turned twenty-four. And this week, it was Thanksgiving again — marking a full year without so much as a word from her.
I reassured myself that she’d gotten restless in one place and set out on a new adventure. She was probably just busy traveling. Maybe she was somewhere remote, like the Sahara desert, where there were no convenient post offices. Maybe she was spending the year at sea, sailing from port to port with no time to disembark and scribe me a few cheery words.
No matter what I told myself, the pit of anxiety burning its way through my stomach lining didn’t go away. I was so concerned about my friend, I’d even called her landlord in Sydney and left a message, hoping he’d know something — anything — that might ease my paranoid thoughts. I’d probably develop an ulcer from the endless worry, by the time I heard back from him.
Unfortunately for me, Margot was the least of my worries. My troubles were only just beginning.
And the careful new life I’d begun to construct in New York was about to implode.
***
Swiftly descending the steps of my apartment building, I hit the street and edged into the busy flow of pedestrian traffic rushing toward the nearest subway platform. I made it a few feet before I noticed the nondescript black sedan, its windows tinted too dark to see through, parked directly in front of m
y walk-up. With a reluctant, resigned sigh, I cut across the steady stream of walkers and reached for the passenger door handle. I wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked.
The chill of the early winter day was chased away as soon as I slipped inside the warm car.
“What do you want?” I asked without preamble. I hadn’t seen him for a few months and we weren’t exactly what you’d call friends. More like grudging acquaintances united by an inescapable past. So there was no point in beating around the bush — if he was here, something was wrong and I wanted to know about it.
“Nice to see you too, Montgomery.”
I rolled my eyes. “Can’t say the same, Gallagher.”
Conor. Fucking. Gallagher.
A twenty-six year old dead sexy Gemini with a killer smile, ice-blue eyes, and a surly disposition that made all that hotness a moot point. The most curmudgeonly city cabbie looked like a cute, cuddly golden retriever puppy next to Conor. He was pathologically unpleasant.
At least, he was when it came to me.
See, there’s a rule about breakups. When you crush someone’s heart, you’re supposed to walk away — permanently. If you’re the one to inflict damage, you’re not supposed to stick around and torture them for the rest of their life. You remove yourself from the picture so they can move on in peace.
But, let me tell you, all the rules go right out the window when you’re desperate to start over and your ex-high-school-boyfriend is a rookie FBI agent with the resources to make that happen for you. A single, pleading phone call three years ago had brought Conor back to my doorstep with a new passport, social security card, birth certificate, and one-way plane ticket in hand. No questions asked.
Was it selfish? Sure.
Did I regret it? Not for a minute.
I knew, even after I’d so painfully ended our teenage tryst, that he would be there for me in an instant if I needed him. He was just that kind of guy — always putting others first, even when they didn’t deserve it. So, when I’d asked, he’d erased the girl he used to love with the help of a few untraceable, unauthorized contacts he’d made since joining the Bureau.
I’d said goodbye to my family, leaving them with nothing more than a hasty explanation about needing to hide from a dangerous ex-boyfriend I’d met abroad. Before I knew it, I’d been thrust into my own unofficial Witness Protection Program — and Conor had, in turn, been saddled with responsibility for the girl who’d broken his heart.
Helping me disappear was one thing.
Forgiving me for screwing up his life — not once, but twice — was another entirely.
Still, he’d been my landing pad when everything fell to pieces. He’d brought me to New York with him and even let me crash at his tiny apartment for a few weeks until I found a job and could afford meals consisting of more than Ramen noodles. He hadn’t pressed me for unnecessary details about Budapest or the man who’d broken my heart there — perhaps because he wanted plausible deniability if any of this came back to bite him in the ass, or maybe because thinking about me with another man hit a little too close to home.
In either case, he knew the only thing that mattered: I was hiding from a man who made it his life’s work to find people who didn’t want to be found. The only way to do that was to become a ghost.
So I did.
“I’m going to be late for work,” I complained, snapping back into the present.
“I know. Sorry,” Conor said, his tone a little less gruff than usual.
My brows shot up on my forehead. “What’s wrong?” I asked instantly.
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“You just said sorry. You never apologize to me. In fact, you make it a point to be as rude as possible.” I stared at him, trying to read his expression. “So I repeat — what’s wrong?”
Conor sighed and leaned back in his seat. He glanced over at me and the typical glare that marred his face whenever he was in my presence was notably absent. There was compassion in his eyes — it made me nervous.
“Gallagher, so help me God, just spit it out,” I demanded. “Rip off the Band-Aid.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s your dad.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, fearing the worst as my mind conjured up possibilities.
Was he sick? Hurt? Dead?
Would I ever see him again?
That’s the problem with becoming a ghost — the dead don’t have families. And the people you leave behind don’t just stop living in your absence. Life goes on… even when you wish it wouldn’t.
“What happened?” The hope in my voice floated fragile in the air, wispy as a butterfly’s wing as I waited for him to elaborate.
“He was in a car accident late last night.” Conor’s blue eyes were steady on mine and, for once, not full of condescension or contempt. “Sounds like some asshole tried to run him off the road.”
His words were a kick to the stomach, slamming the wind from my lungs. I tried to respond, but found I couldn’t form words.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more details for you.” Conor’s voice was kind. “My mom called early this morning to let me know. I came straight here to tell you.”
“Thank you,” I managed to whisper, once I’d regained some composure.
I saw him nod in my peripheral and I could feel his gaze scanning my face. A moment of silence passed as I waded through the emotions warring for space inside my mind.
How could I go home?
How could I not go home?
It had been three years… wasn’t I safe from the ghost of boyfriends past, by this point?
Wes wasn’t looking for me. He’d probably never been looking for me. I bet I could’ve stayed Faith Morrissey for the rest of my life and never seen him again. After all — none of it had been real, for him. I’d been nothing more than a mark.
I thought of my Dad — my crazy, quirky, too-much-tie-dye-for-his-own-good Dad. And, suddenly, my skull emptied of all those chaotic thoughts tumbling around in free fall.
The slim chance that Wes was trying to find me by keeping tabs on my family wasn’t enough to justify staying away.
Not when they needed me.
I raised my eyes to look at Conor and listened to my own voice, wavering and uncertain, as it broke the quiet. I sounded like a stranger to my own ears.
“Conor?”
He jolted. I never used his first name — not anymore. Not since I’d become Fae.
Clearing his throat, he quickly recovered. “Yeah, Montgomery?”
“I think…” I swallowed hard. “I’m going home.”
Chapter Forty-One: FAITH
HOME SWEET HOME
I don’t remember much of my last two plane rides.
The trip home from Budapest — actually, pretty much everything from the time I woke up in the hospital to the time I landed in the States — was a blur. I know that me, Margot, and a handful of other American couriers were pumped for information by men in dark suits for hours, answering their questions about Hermes and looking through mugshots as we tried to help the CIA piece together who had been working inside the organization. I don’t remember what questions they asked or what names were inscribed on their badges. I don’t know if I was helpful to them.
I do know that there was a debriefing of sorts.
A tearful goodbye to Margot.
A plane ride home to California.
But those memories were clouded by a fog of unrelenting grief and sheer disbelief.
For months, I’d been a zombie — a living girl with a dead soul. As though I’d died in the fire that day but my corpse refused to stop functioning.
Thankfully, I was much more conscious for this plane ride.
I spent the five-hour flight trying not to fidget in my seat as I thought about seeing my family for the first time in years. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming — hopefully, my showing up would be a welcome surprise, rather than an unexpected imposition. Family reunions, even under the best of c
ircumstances, were always stressful. And these were not the best of circumstances — not by a long shot.
As the plane landed and taxied to the gate, I tried to breathe deeply and assure myself that everything would be all right. I powered on my cell phone and saw that during the flight, I’d missed a call from an unknown number. Unease stirred in my belly as I dialed my voicemail box and listened to the unfamiliar Australian accent speaking into my ear.
“Miss Montgomery — this is Roger Callahan. You left me a message about one of my previous tenants… a Miss, uh…” There was a pause, as though he was reading her name off a piece of paper. Not a good sign. “Miss Mills.”
Clearly, Margot wasn’t living there anymore.
“I’m sorry to have missed you. Give me a call back at this number, when you have a chance. There are some things we should probably talk about.”
The line clicked off.
Crap. From the sound of things, Margot had gotten herself into trouble. Maybe she’d skipped out on her rent and owed him some money, I reasoned, ignoring the anxiety rumbling in my gut. But he hadn’t sounded angry — he’d sounded almost sympathetic. Like he felt sorry for me.
I tried not to think about what that might mean as I called back the number and listened to it ring for several long moments until his voicemail finally picked up.
This game of phone-tag was starting to get on my nerves.
I’d begun to dial again, but stopped when I realized the plane had reached the gate. The mystery of Margot Mills would have to wait another few hours, at least.
Hurrying through the terminal, I jostled alongside my fellow passengers, trying to beat the rush to the baggage claim. It was a shame I’d had to check my luggage, but certain items — like my Lady Smith and the three clips of ammo that accompanied her — were a big no-no in carry-on bags, unless you wanted to piss off the TSA agents and end up on several no-fly lists. It was a pain in the ass, but traveling unarmed wasn’t an option. My pistol had, in many ways, become my security blanket.
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