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.
I want to drag her out of the apartment so we can catch up more. So I can feel like a normal person for a minute, but I know it’ll only complicate things for me. So I put it off for another time.
“I’m running out, Bree. I’ll see you in a bit.”
She flips me a peace sign without breaking her trance with the screen.
On the outside, the Trinity House doesn’t seem as magical as the website suggests. Set between two storefronts with simple signage—a small banner in the window—the place seems unremarkable.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I shouldn’t be long.”
Makanga pulls a grapefruit out of the center console and starts to peel it. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
I push through the center’s double doors and see a couple of middle-aged men sitting in the waiti
ng room. A young woman sits at the reception desk.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find out some information about a man who was in your program a few years ago.”
Her lips form a small pout. “I’m sorry. I can’t share patient information. It’s company policy.”
“I understand.” I’m not ready to give up yet, though. “It’s actually really important. He’s been missing, and I’m trying to help his family track down anything I can find about where he might have gone.”
She hums and looks around her desk, as if the answers might be there. She doesn’t seem extremely bright. Then her eyes light up.
“Would you like to talk to the director? She’s almost always traveling, but she’s here today. Maybe she could help?”
I release an audible sigh. “That would be amazing. Thank you so much.”
She lifts a pen attached to the clipboard between us and taps on the paper with it. “Can you just sign in here? She should be with you shortly.”
I take the pen and begin to write Isab—
I freeze.
I finish writing Isabel…and then scrawl Santos for my last name.
I drop the pen and find a seat in the waiting room. I wonder where the courtyard is and whether Tristan spent much time here before starting his new life. Several minutes later the receptionist calls my name, leads me deeper into the building, and pauses outside the director’s office.
She raps lightly on the door, and the redhead seated behind an exceptionally clean desk turns away from her computer screen and rises. I take a couple of steps inside.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly paralyzed by the intense blue-eyed stare she’s pinned on me.
She offers an outstretched hand. “I’m Jude McKenna. You must be Isabel.” Her fingers are cold, and her grip is solid. “Have a seat.”
The receptionist disappears, leaving the door ajar, and we both sit. The office seems new with clean beige walls and matching rugs. The woman before me doesn’t blend in with her surroundings though. Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun, which does little to diminish her natural beauty. Impeccably dressed, she could be a model straight out of a women’s work fashion catalogue with her fitted trousers and turtleneck blouse. She belongs in the Capitol building, not here.
“How can I help you? Kelly said you were inquiring about a patient.”
“Yes, I am.” A knot of anxiety lodges in my throat. I’m at a loss for words. This all suddenly feels wrong.
“His name?”
I blink rapidly. “Um, Tristan Stone.”
Her nostrils flare slightly. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Are you family?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
My jaw opens, and then I clamp it shut. She smiles, but it soon disappears. She turns toward her computer and clicks her mouse a few times. The privacy screen keeps me from seeing anything she’s doing.
“Have you checked with the VA?”
I swallow over the anxiety building with each passing second. “No, he came here. I know he did.”
“And then…you lost touch?”
“Right. He just kind of disappeared after he came back from his last deployment. I thought maybe you could tell me something. Last-known address. Anything, really.”
She turns away from the screen and faces me again. “If it were a police matter, I could help. But unfortunately I can’t share patient information with you.” She pauses a moment, and then her voice softens slightly. “I can tell you that our center specifically caters to veterans dealing with the worst kinds of trauma. Sometimes the only path forward is to start over.”
I stare into my lap and try to mask the blow of those words, because nothing could describe Tristan better. He’d suffered the worst kind of trauma. And he thought the only choice was to start over…as a trained killer. Except I suspect that path chose him, not the other way around.
I lift my gaze. “I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” I stand to go. This woman’s vibe is unsettling. Everything about the meeting is. I already feel as if I’ve said too much. Shared too much. What if I’ve left a trail somehow? What if the people who want me dead find out I was here?
“Miss Foster?”
My grip tightens on the door. Suddenly I can hardly breathe. The sound of my name—my real name—has sucked all the oxygen out of the room. All my instincts are screaming for me to get out of here.
She looks me over thoroughly. “I can have Kelly try to track him down. If she makes contact, she could let him know someone is looking for him if you think that might help.”
“Sure,” I say quickly just to end the conversation. “That would be wonderful.”
“Just leave your contact info with her on your way out.”
“I’ll be sure to.” I return her polite smile and hurry down the hall.
I don’t bother leaving my info at the front desk. I see Makanga outside, his body reclined in the seat, apparently napping. I go to the car and yank hard on the wire. Makanga bolts up and reaches over, letting me in.
I drop into the seat and slam the door behind me. “Fix your fucking car.”
“I guess it didn’t go so well in there.”
“Just… Let’s go.”
As he starts the engine and puts us into motion, I catch Director McKenna’s figure hovering just beyond the doors, watching us drive away.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tristan
Isabel is bait. Temptation of the best and worst kind. Ignoring my past was easy enough when I didn’t have a beautiful, charismatic woman luring me into it. Hell, maybe she’s a siren leading me to my death—or at least much further down the rabbit hole than I ever imagined I’d go.
As soon as I begin to doubt the journey, curiosity tests the edges of my resolve and I find myself reaching for more. I’m compelled to rip away the gauze that’s made everything dark and fuzzy for so long. Which is exactly why I’m sitting outside the Patriot’s Fare Restaurant & Bar waiting for Zachary Brennan to get off his shift. If I bail, his wife will tell him an old buddy stopped by looking for him. He’ll never know for sure it was me. And I’ll never know about the massacre that sent us both home three years ago.
I spent most of the night driving around DC. I stopped at a few monuments. Admired them in their illuminated wonder. Drifted back into my own turmoil and drove some more. Then I stopped at a little diner to recaffeinate and did what I probably should have done a long time ago. I pulled up an internet search for Tristan Stone.
What I found was sparse. My mother’s obituary, a graduation roster from my high school, and an article about an ambush on a Special Forces unit stationed in Afghanistan. Only two men walked away from it alive. Tristan Stone and Zachary Brennan.
Even if I hadn’t seen his photo in the article, I feel as if I’d know Brennan’s face. He has a large build but a humble stride as he heads toward his pickup truck in the parking lot behind the restaurant. I push off my car and meet him as he’s fumbling with his keys.
“Brennan?”
He looks up, his eyes wide. He freezes and blinks a few times. “Holy shit. Holy shit!” He laughs and then covers his mouth with his hand. “I can’t believe it’s you, man. Where the hell have you been?”
I force a smile, which isn’t extremely difficult since Brennan seems pleased as punch to see me. I wasn’t sure what to expect.
“It’s been a while,” I simply say.
“Yeah, sure has.” His mirth fades a little. “Shit, last time I saw you, I thought we were both finished.”
I look down a moment and back up, studying his features. “You want to grab a beer or something?”
“Hell yeah.” He lifts his chin toward the restaurant. Its faded blue paint is peeling off the wood in places. “I know the owner here. He’ll hook us up.”
I follow him inside, and we settle at a small table near the back of the restaurant. An older man with a thick midsection and an apron tied around it comes up
to our table.
“You back again already?”
Brennan laughs. “Met an old friend outside. Wanted to buy him a drink. Abe, this is Corporal Tristan Stone. We served together a few years back.”
The older man jolts back. “Hell, beers on the house, then. Thank you for your service, young man.”
I shake his meaty hand, feeling like a fraud as I do. Nothing I’ve done since my time overseas has been deserving of pride.
Brennan orders our beers and the man disappears.
“So how have you been, man?”
I let out a nervous laugh. Jesus, fuck. How do I even start to answer that? I can’t pretend that anything about my life has been normal. I wouldn’t know where to begin, so I have to come clean with him. Now or never.
“This is probably going to sound…odd.”
His buddy brings our beers and a bowl of peanuts. “Here you go, fellas. Hey, thanks again. I mean it.” He pats me hard on the arm, and I harness all my willpower not to glare so he’ll leave us—me—alone. I force another smile and avert my gaze, hoping he’ll go away.
As he does, Brennan pops a peanut in his mouth. “Sorry. Abe gets excited sometimes. When I told him I did a tour in Afghanistan, he hired me on the spot. He’s got a thing for vets.”
I lift an eyebrow, and he laughs.
“I’m serious. He goes around town and harasses people when their flags get too tattered. Buys them new ones if they won’t replace them on their own. I’ve never met a bigger patriot. Honest to God.”
“I bet.”
I don’t understand patriotism, though I’m certain another part of me probably did. Or maybe I put my body in harm’s way for some other reason. To seek revenge for my mother’s senseless death by making my country’s enemy my own. Or maybe my years in the military converted me into a flag-loving patriot, someone worthy of his friend’s pride.
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