The Red Ledger_2

by Meredith Wild

  If Isabel’s not already on Jay’s radar, she will be soon. Her first instinct upon recognizing me was to follow me through the streets of Rio and into a dangerous alleyway, so I had reason to question her impulses when she landed back home. More times than not, she does whatever she feels is right, which could quickly land her in trouble.

  I open up the app on my phone that indicates Isabel’s location. Relieved, I map my way to her friend’s apartment, eager to finish the last leg of a very long journey back to the States.

  I’ve been on plenty of assignments but haven’t spent time in this part of the country since my memory went dark. Maybe that’s why Jay never sent me here. Maybe she couldn’t risk the familiarity of the place triggering something in me.

  I contemplate that as I drive down the highway. What if I remember more? What if Isabel can break it open now that we’re both here?

  Is that even what I want?

  I turn the car radio down completely, removing the distraction so I can focus on the visuals. The endless horizon of the highway is dotted with luxury cars and semis. I turn onto the exit that will take me to my destination, hoping for something. Suddenly every building and shop and street sign holds the promise of remembrance but offers none.

  The brightly lit entrance of the Clarendon comes into view, and all I can feel is a prickling anticipation to see Isabel. All I can picture is her face when I said goodbye to her. The regret I feel for doing it is uncomfortable, but I’m all the more glad to be reconciling the distance now.

  I park, enter the apartment building, and call the number for the phone I had Makanga set up for her. She picks up after the second ring.

  “Hello?” she answers tentatively.

  “It’s me, Tristan. What floor are you on?”

  She’s silent a moment.

  “Who is it?” a voice says in the background.

  “It’s Tristan,” she whispers.

  Fucking hell. “Isabel. The apartment number.”

  “Seven seventeen.”

  I hang up without another word. The twenty-four-hour lag between our arrivals was apparently too long. She’s already spilled details to her friend. I know it.

  I arrive on the seventh floor. The door is open before I knock. Isabel is there, and before I can say anything, she pulls me inside and slams her body against mine. Twines her arms around my neck. Presses her face against my skin.

  The door clicks shut behind us. Her friend is inside on the couch, watching us intently. I hesitate a couple of seconds before slowly returning the embrace. I’m too tired to pretend it’s not a welcome sensation. Like our last night in Brazil hasn’t been replaying in my mind since I watched her take off without me. Isabel is under my skin, and I’m not sure any amount of insubordination will change that. She holds me tighter, sinks in deeper, touches places inside me that I forgot existed.

  “You don’t follow instructions very well,” I murmur, breathing her in as I wait for a snarky comeback.

  “If you want me to follow orders, you’d better be here to enforce them.”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  She looks up at me like she can’t believe I’m real. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “I wasn’t sure I was.”

  I can see the impact of the admission in the slight pinch of her features and the cooling of her affection as she steps away. She turns toward our host.

  “Tristan, this is Brienne.”

  Brienne waves her hand from her post on the couch. “Heard a lot about you.”

  “Really?” I shoot a narrow look at Isabel.

  She returns it with a tight smile. “You were kind of a theme in my life before I moved to Brazil.”

  “A recurring theme, as it were,” Brienne says, crossing her arms like she might have something more to say on the subject. “I think you have explaining to do.”

  She’s a petite woman with dark eyes and smooth olive skin. Her hair is long and straight, falling past her shoulders the same way Isabel’s does.

  I look to Isabel again, wondering how much she may have told her friend about the man I’ve become and the danger she’s fallen into.

  Isabel clears her throat. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  She takes my hand and leads me into the apartment, closing the door behind us after we enter what appears to be a guest bedroom. Her things are in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. I log all the details. The basic layout of the two-bedroom apartment. The impressive view out the window. The clean, modern decor. The accommodations aren’t cheap.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her we met up in Rio a little while ago and took a trip outside the city last week. Said we ran into some trouble with the locals and I had to fly home in a rush. She bought all of it.”

  “And why are you here and not with your parents?”

  She flinches. “It’s too dangerous, Tristan. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know that. What does she know?”

  “Oh, I just said my parents didn’t know about any of it yet. Told her that I haven’t ruled out going back to Rio and I didn’t want to worry them if I could avoid it. Obviously she wants me to stay, and she said I can hang out here as long as I want to. Or indefinitely. We lived together for four years.”

  “Which is why you shouldn’t be here. As soon as Jay’s people figure out you’re back in the States, they’ll scour all your contacts in the city. They’ll find you here.”

  “I’m not staying with some stranger, okay?” She throws her hands up and sits on the edge of the unmade bed, her head falling into her hands. “We’ve been on the run for days, Tristan, and this is the first time I’ve felt safe.”

  “You feel comfortable. It’s not the same.” When she doesn’t respond after a while, I sit beside her. The bed dips under my weight, shifting her closer to me so our sides touch. I curl my arm around her, keeping her there. “We’ll stay here for now, all right? And tomorrow we’ll reach out to your father and see if he knows anything that can help.”

  She lifts her gaze to mine. I can see the gratitude swimming in those hazel depths. I touch her silky cheek, draw the backs of my fingers along her jaw. My gaze settles on her mouth. The magnetic force that draws me to this woman time and again lures me forward until our lips meet. The kiss is homecoming and desire and the smallest physical manifestation of all the things she makes me feel.

  When I finally pull away, a few tears have fallen, leaving shimmery trails down her cheeks. I want to brush them away and reassure her. Except my reassurances are worthless until I can stop the people who want us dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Isabel

  I wake to sirens wailing down the street. My heart slams against my ribs as the sound fades out. I breathe a sigh of relief and remember I’m at Brienne’s. Tristan’s side of the bed is empty. Despite my disorientation, I know he was here. He wasn’t a dream.

  I lift my head to the sound of a keyboard clicking. He’s sitting in a chair beside the window, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, his bare feet propped on the sill. His expression is pensive, his gaze intent on his laptop screen. Through the window, past parks and the Potomac, the National Cathedral is nestled into a backdrop of greenery, just visible through an early morning fog.

  A contented smile tugs at my lips. I can’t help but appreciate the visual and entertain a little fantasy that this is normal. A lazy morning at our place. This could have been us…

  Despite how he left me so utterly heartbroken, I haven’t been able to give up the dream we once shared. Having him back in my life, being reunited with the physical man, only reminds me how he’s always personified everything attractive to me. Somehow it’s all been amplified in the six years we’ve spent apart. His confident stride. His penetrating stare. The masculine yet graceful lines of his body, as if he’d been carved into being.

  I imagine a sculptor chiseling away, revealing the man Tristan was meant to
be from the block of stone that held him. Maybe there was more yet to reveal. Maybe holding on to the man he was all those years ago is hurting us both. He can never be that man again. His experiences the past six years have fed the darkness in him, but they’ve also led him back to me. I can’t acknowledge one circumstance without the other. I have to learn to accept this reality.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my appraisal of him until the sheets whisper with my movement. He turns his head, his serious expression softening.

  “Morning, stranger,” I say, still groggy from sleep.

  His eyes take a quick pass over my supine position before locking with mine. “Morning,” he says quietly.

  I regret that he barely touched me last night. Moments after I nestled against his side, he fell into a deep sleep. One that, mercifully, wasn’t marred with nightmares like the one I’d witnessed at Mateus’s. I followed him down, needing to rest my soul as much as my body in those quiet hours. Having Tristan with me again does something to my soul. No matter what we’re facing, being in his presence again puts things right.

  “You should get ready. We have a date.”

  I smile at the prospect of finally leaving Brienne’s apartment. A date with Tristan sounds promising too. “I thought you’d never ask. Where are we going?”

  “I made contact with your father. Anonymously of course. Said I had a tip for him and needed to meet.”

  I sit up. My heart picks up speed again as if there’s another blaring siren coming my way.

  “Are you sure we should do that?”

  “It should be fine. I’ll be there.”

  I nod and brace myself for what’s to come. Except I never really know. With Tristan, I dive in headfirst and contemplate the risks afterward. I wasn’t so different before, but now our snap decisions tip the scales between life or death. Every move matters.

  Antsy to see my father, I shower and dress in record time. I emerge to find Brienne and Tristan in the living room, a tense silence filling the space.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Tristan answers. “You ready to go?”

  Brienne rolls her eyes and heads down the hallway. “See you guys later.”

  “What was that about?” I ask as we leave the apartment.

  “Nothing.”

  Tristan’s curt reply closes the subject, though I intend to press Brienne on it the next chance I get.

  A sharp wind whips through the ground-floor breezeway as we make our way to the street. Tristan’s car is a new, sporty BMW, a nice improvement from my last ride.

  “How do you know Makanga, anyway?”

  “We’ve done business before. Not in DC.” Tristan merges with the street traffic and drives us toward a park on the outskirts of town where my father will be waiting for me.

  A pang of anxiety hits me about our impending rendezvous, so I attempt to distract myself.

  “Is he a friend?”

  “No friends, remember,” he says without emotion. “But he’s reliable most of the time.”

  “You didn’t want to tell him my name.”

  “That’s because I don’t trust anyone.” He turns left, his wrist resting casually on the wheel as if he’s made this drive a thousand times.

  “You don’t trust him, but you expected me to feel good about staying with him for an unforeseen amount of time?”

  He lifts an eyebrow and glances at me before returning his attention to the road. “You trying to pick a fight over this?”

  “No,” I say quietly and look out the window. I don’t know why I’m pressing the issue, except that there’s still so much I don’t know.

  “I didn’t trust Mateus either,” he says, “but I let him get you out of there. I did what I had to do. When you’re on the run and living off the grid, the rules are different, Isabel. Every bond can be broken. Family, friends, lovers. It doesn’t matter. We do what we need to survive.”

  Something cold wraps around my heart with his words. I’m not Tristan’s friend. I’m barely his lover. And no matter what I am to him, everything is conditional.

  Every bond can be broken.

  Tristan parks on the street and surveys the area. It’s noon. Despite the chill, a few people are bundled up on benches, eating their lunches. Others run along the path that follows the river. No one seems suspicious.

  Then I see my father. His back is to us. He’s gazing out over the choppy water, hands in his pockets.

  My heart lurches. I want to run and tell him everything, but a part of me is terrified that he’ll be upset with this mess I’ve gotten myself into. I look over to Tristan, whose attention has fixed on my father as well.

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  Tristan slides his gaze to mine. “Nothing. He won’t know I’m here. It’s all you.”

  I exhale a shaky breath. “Okay. That makes sense, I guess. What should I ask him? Anything specific?”

  Of course, I’ll want to just blurt out what the past week has been like, but I’m not sure when I’ll get the chance to see him again. This meeting isn’t about sentiment. I came here to find out the truth, and my father might be the only person who can get us closer to it.

  “You should ask if he has enemies, people who would want to hurt you to get to him. He might be working on something that’s gone sideways and implicated him in a more personal way.”

  I mentally log the request. Morgan Foster hasn’t gotten to where he’s at by betraying confidences or clearances. He never discussed his work at home. I’m not sure he would even if he could. He’s always been private. But I’ve got to try.

  “What about the notebook? The one you told me to give him if you didn’t find me at the church that night?”

  Tristan goes still. “I’d like that back if you don’t mind.”

  “What is it?”

  He sweeps his gaze across the park once more. “You should tell your father the truth. You may not get it from him, but at this point, there’s nothing to lose by him knowing what’s happened. The more information he has, the more he’ll know what to look for if he actually plans to help us.”

  “Then why can’t he see the notebook now?”

  He turns to me, his expression hardened. “Because as long as I’m breathing, it’s my business, not his. It’s insurance. Something I thought might help you if Crow managed to kill me.”

  “Who’s Crow?”

  His lips tighten into a grim line. “He’s a pain in my ass. Another contractor.”

  “He’s an assassin. He kills people for a living.”

  His silence answers for him.

  “Do you know a lot of people like him?”

  “Some,” he says. “Mostly others in the organization. Jay calls us Company Eleven. Sometimes our paths crossed.”

  “How does it work?”

  He juts his chin toward my father’s stoic figure in the distance. “He’s waiting for you.”

  “I’m waiting too. Tell me.” I fold my arms over my chest.

  Tristan thrums his fingers on the steering wheel. “After I got settled in Rio, I got my first message from Jay. We communicate through a protected chat. It’s always the same thing. She sends me a file on the hit. Name, location, optimal time to execute, and any pertinent details or hindrances I should know before going in. If I ever feel like I need to know more, I have to dig for it myself, which I’ve gotten pretty good at. I figure out all the logistics on my own—travel, surveillance, bribes—and report back when it’s done. She wires the funds by the time I land back home. The fee plus incidentals.”

  I study his stolid features, as disbelieving as ever that this was his existence. His normal. “Just like that.”

  He hesitates a beat. “Just like that.”

  “How much would you have gotten paid to kill me?”

  My father’s begun to pace a short path, back and forth, looking between the gray sky and the pavement. Still, I wait for Tristan’s answer.

  “Thirty thousand do
llars,” he says without making eye contact.

  I’m not sure why I wanted to know, but now that I do, the reality of it hits me in an odd way. Someone was willing to pay thirty thousand dollars to make sure I died.

  Thirty thousand dollars is the price of someone’s life, regardless of what they’ve done or not done, regardless of who they’ll leave behind…

  The truth is crushing, but I find myself seeking more of it. More of the painful, terrible truth.

  I close my hand around the door handle. “Where will you be?”

  He finally meets my eyes. “I’ll be right here watching you the whole time.”

  I leave the vehicle and walk toward my father. Within seconds, I’m within earshot, but I can’t bring myself to call out to him. I don’t have to. He turns, and recognition lights up his eyes. He takes a few large strides toward me.

  Wordlessly, he pulls me into a crushing embrace.

  I can feel his heart hammering. The strength of his embrace is home—the safe place I was so determined to run from once upon a time. I exhale a shaky breath as we break away, blinking away the emotion burning behind my eyes.

  He holds me by the shoulders, seeming to do the same. “What happened? Why didn’t you come straight home? I don’t think I’ve slept since the police told us you were missing. I know your mother hasn’t.”

  “It’s a long story. It had to be this way. I’m sorry.”

  Every worry line in his face is more pronounced than ever. “We should have never let you go there.”

  I close my eyes with a sigh. My parents argued with me endlessly about going to Rio. But they’d argued against me being with Tristan too. They argued about the hour-long bus ride into Baltimore. Every nagging objection was a strip of rope around my freedom until I was ready to snap.