The Red Ledger
3
MEREDITH WILD
This book is an original publication of Meredith Wild.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2018 Meredith Wild
Cover Design by Meredith Wild
Cover photographs: Alamy & Shutterstock
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Continue The Red Ledger
Also by Meredith Wild
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Isabel
New Orleans
Ribbons of passion and song seep through the closed doors of St. Joan of Arc Catholic Church into the empty street. A woman inside is singing, the soulful sound lifted up by the accompanying piano and drums. Making my post my pew, I hum the familiar hymn until the lyrics to the refrain come back to me.
All that we have and all that we offer
Comes from a heart both frightened and free.
I briefly consider going inside, but for now I’m content to wait where I am, a block off the Mississippi River. The immediate neighborhood is unremarkable—modest houses, an adjacent school, and a warehouse with commercial space a few feet down the street where I’m now parked.
After an all-night drive from DC, I traveled the long stretch of highway that took me over Lake Pontchartrain and into the city at dawn. Already the sultry spring air is a welcome change from the chilly capital. I close my eyes and melt into the supple leather seat of the blue SUV that’s been my home since my mother pushed the keys into my hand and we said our tearful goodbyes. Only goodbye for now, I think, as I feel exhaustion tug at me.
“Hey.”
A loud voice and the sudden rapping on the windshield jolts me upright. I brace my hand on the center console and open my eyes at the same time. A heavily muscled man with a shaved head, his shirt damp with sweat, is standing just beyond my rolled-down window. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest. I scramble to open the console and whip out the pistol I have hidden there.
“Whoa, whoa.” The man backs up a couple of steps with his hands raised.
I blink rapidly and try to steady the full-body panic vibrating through me. On second glance, he looks a little less menacing. More like a forty-something gym rat out on his morning run. His skin is like mine, sandy brown. His eyes a shade darker, wide and honest.
“I’m not going to hurt you, all right? I noticed your out-of-town plates, saw you sleeping here, and wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, I don’t need help,” I snap. Why would he think I need help? Do I look that bad? I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My skin is dull, and the bags under my eyes seem to reflect the toll of this latest leg of my journey.
I untangle my hand from the weapon. My adrenaline is still pumping hard, but I try to suppress the feeling of immediate danger.
“Sorry. I’ve been driving all night. I’m just tired. I’m waiting for someone.”
I glance at the still-closed doors of the church. The Sunday service should be wrapping up soon.
“With a gun?”
“It’s for protection. You scared the shit out of me.”
He drops his arms and pinches the center of his branded T-shirt, tugging it off his damp skin a few times. “You worried about someone in particular or just everyone?” His chest moves with labored breaths, more from physical exertion than the fact I considered shooting him a few seconds ago, I’m guessing.
He points toward my lap when I don’t respond. “Believe it or not, you don’t need that.”
Why can’t he take a hint? I’m not interested in company. Can’t he read the sign on my forehead: Crazy, exhausted woman with a handgun. Back off.
“Thanks, but you don’t know anything about what I need or don’t need.”
“I know you’re scared to death. Probably a little too punchy to have a weapon like that within reach. You almost shot me for knocking on your window. Doesn’t that concern you?”
Jesus. If I wanted a sermon, I would have attended the service. I clunk the gun back into the center console and slam it shut. “I don’t even know how to use it. Does that make you feel better?”
“Not really.”
“Listen, I have to go.” I look to the church again, relieved when I see the doors open and patrons spilling out onto the steps. “Sorry,” I say again for good measure as I get out of the vehicle and move away from the man.
Approaching the church steps, I try to ignore the knot of anxiety I’ve been holding on to about meeting a different stranger altogether—the mysterious woman my mother assured me would help me get settled here in the city.
Martine Benoit looks just like the picture Mom gave me. A few inches shorter than me, she’s petite with curves that fill out her bright floral sheath dress, her feet adorned with bright-red patent leather pumps. The heavy rouge on her cheeks and heavily dyed blond hair betray a woman clinging to her youth. She lingers near the entrance with the reverend and two other women who look to be around my age.
The sparse crowd thins quickly, narrowing my window for making contact. I push my doubts aside and climb the steps to her.
“Let us know what you need for the dinner. I’m sure the girls would love to help,” she says.
The reverend takes her hand and holds it in both of his. “That would be wonderful. Your generosity is always a blessing.”
His gaze flickers to mine, and Martine’s follows.
She looks me up and down before smiling. “Isabel.”
I hesitate a few paces away, but she waves me forward.
“Come. Reverend Stephens, this is Isabel. She’ll be staying with us.”
I go to them, and as he takes my hand, I experience for myself his warmth and gentle strength.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabel. You are welcome here anytime. Consider this an extended home.”
“Thank you,” I say, uneasy with how quickly I’m being swept into a world of people I don’t know.
The knot in my belly tightens when I think of Tristan. I miss him. I’d much rather have him at my side than force myself into these new circumstances. But I have to be strong. Have to find my own way for now.
The reverend nods to each of us. “You ladies have a blessed day.”
Martine and the two girls flanking her murmur reciprocations before turning their attention to me.
“You made good time,” Martine says with a painted smile. “Lucia said to expect you tonight at the earliest.”
“I decided to drive straight through,” I admit. I didn’t relish the miles I was putting between Tristan and me, nor was I overly anxious to make this first move into my new life. Mostly, I couldn’t see myself staying at a hotel anywhere between here and there and feeling comfortable enough to actually rest.
“Skye and Zeda are sisters at the house. They’ll help you get settled.”
House? Sisters?
I register a needle of concern that my mother has committed me to some sort of convent for wayward women.
Martine gestures to Zeda. She’s tall with deep-brown skin and features made even more striking by her short hair. She could easily model the runways of Milan, but the distance she keeps from the others and her untrusting eyes tells me that’s not the path she’s been on.
“Good to meet you,” she says without much warmth.
“You must be exhausted, child. Come.” Martine hooks an arm into mine, and together we descend the steps.
Except our journey is leading us right back to the man I hoped would go away. He saunters across the street, his muscles flagrantly on display, his lips curved slightly.
“Noam.” Martine sings his name.
“Morning.” He leans in to kiss her cheek. “I’m sweaty.”
She shushes him. “I wouldn’t know you any other way. Meet our new sister, Isabel.”
His gaze lingers on Zeda a moment before locking with mine. “Isabel. Pleasure to formally meet you. I’m Noam Namir.”
“Noam owns the Krav Maga center over there.” She points down Cambronne to a plain-looking building with metal siding and a few windows.
“You’re welcome anytime, Isabel. I’d love to have you. No charge.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say tightly.
The exhaustion is no doubt making me edgy. His aggressive concern for me is difficult to accept, though. All of this is. Martine’s motherly clutch on my arm. Her flock of “sisters” who probably already know things about this arrangement and me that I wish no one did. Even the reverend who reminded me of Father Antonio back in Brazil, an open heart and a kind smile.
“The house isn’t far. We can walk,” Martine says. “It’s a fine day.”
I stiffen. “I have my car. I can meet you there if you give me the address.”
She waves her hand. “It’s only a few blocks. Noam, you can drive Isabel’s car up the street for us, couldn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Wait—”
Martine squeezes my arm gently. “Noam is with us. Your things are safe with him. Plus, I was hoping we could chat.”
I don’t feel as if I’m being given much choice, but my mother ensured me that Martine could be trusted. She’s an old friend. A dear and well-connected friend whom she never spoke of until she was handing me a new life in a new place—a place where the people who want me dead will hopefully never find me.
I take my keys out and hand them to Noam.
“I’ll be over in a few.” He winks.
He jogs over to my car as Martine leads us toward our destination.
Skye and Zeda walk ahead of us. Their quicker pace soon makes it impossible for them to hear us.
“You poor thing, you must be terrified,” Martine mutters.
We share a look, but I’m at a loss for what to say.
Am I terrified? All things considered, yes, terrified sums up my current state of mind pretty well.
“Your mother told me everything,” she continues. She shakes her head as if something unpleasant has just passed through her thoughts. “Even if she hadn’t, I could see it on your face the minute I saw you. It may take some time for you to believe it, but you’ll be safe with us. I promise you that.”
“Thank you.”
I am thankful. Even if I’m scared and uncomfortable. Noam drives by in my SUV, honking as he passes.
“You know him pretty well?”
“I have known Noam for many years. He’s part of the fabric of our little community here. He watches out for the girls. More importantly, he helps them watch out for themselves. You should go to him.” She gives my upper arm a harsh squeeze. “Put some muscle behind your fear and it’ll become something else. Something you can face.”
I nod a little as we turn onto a much busier St. Charles Avenue. Majestic live oaks line both sides, bathing our path in shade.
“But first, we’ll show you around, and you can get some sleep. You can breathe easy now. No more running.”
The farther we walk, the better I feel. Our conversation melts away, replaced by the flow of cars up and down the street. The rhythmic clopping of Martine’s heels on the sidewalk. The hum and periodic ding of the street car moving past us down the median. I feel as if I’ve stepped into another world. An offbeat kind of place that—despite its grit and oddities—feels almost magical. And the woman beside me may be my fairy godmother.
I’m ready to chide myself for these sleep-deprived thoughts when we slow in front of a sprawling old house with an ornate facade. I take in its features—a welcoming wraparound porch, tall bay windows, and a second-floor balcony. Lush greenery, a long drive where my car is already parked, and a wide wrought-iron gate separate it from the street. A castle too, I think, fully surrendering to the fairy tale now.
Two golden emblems are set within the gate’s rails—the serif letter “H” with a double ringed oval running through its center and enclosing the upper half of the letter. Wrought-iron fleur-de-lis and swirling vines curl around them, reaching all the way to the top of the center pickets that are artfully coiled above the others.
Martine punches a code into the box beside the door latch. It buzzes, and the door slowly opens with a groan.
“This is the house?” I wonder aloud, doing little to hide my awe of the place.
Martine smiles and leads me down the path. “Welcome to Halo.”
TRISTAN
I wait at a café across the street from the car repair place and stare at my phone, rereading the headline that hit the national news circuit this morning.
Missing American Teacher Found Dead in Rio
The article goes on to explain how the body of Isabel Foster, an English teacher in Brazil who disappeared ten days ago, was found dumped on the outskirts of the city, so unrecognizable that dental records had to be referenced to confirm her identity.
Someone’s helped Isabel disappear, and for once, it wasn’t me. While her father has resources, I’m skeptical he’s used them to fake his daughter’s death.
Then there’s Lucia…
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when she passes through the door.
I study her. Her rigid posture and confident gait. Her hand steady on her purse.
“I got your message,” she says almost breathlessly as she takes the opposite chair.
“Is she safe?”
She meets my eyes. “She’s safe.”
“Who is she with?”
She quietly assesses me. Like Isabel, her beauty is a distraction from whatever lies beneath. I have every intention of unearthing at least a few of her secrets today.
“Tristan, what do you truly want from her?”
“I want her out of harm’s way.”
She cants her head as if she doesn’t believe me.
“I would never hurt her.” Unnerved, I make the vow with more force.
“If she has to start over—and she does—she has the right to do it alone.”
Her words are a swift punch to my heart, the same broken organ that Isabel’s brought back to life. I exhale slowly, trying like hell not to show how her words affect me. Maybe I’d read things wrong with Isabel. Misunderstood her affection for something entirely different in our desperate circumstances. Or maybe after Brienne, there’s simply nothing left to salvage.
“She cares for you.” Lucia interrupts my spinning thoughts. Flattening her palms on the table, she leans in. “What I’m asking is if you care for her past your sense of obligation to keep her safe.”
“Of course,” I say without hesitation.
“Have you told her that?”
I hesitate. “I… Lucia, we’ve been through hell. W
hen was I supposed to tell her?”
“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”
I work my jaw and look away. True enough. Our intimate moments have been heavy with all the things I haven’t said, things I don’t know how to express. I trusted she could sense it without me having to say the words.
“We’ve been a little distracted.”
“You’re making excuses.”
Her mother’s not giving me an inch of forgiveness. When I invited her here to talk, I was expecting to press her for information about Isabel’s situation, not state my intentions to earn it.
I swipe the coffee stirrer and trap it between my teeth, grinding absently. What do I say? How do I get back to Isabel with her mother guarding the gates?
I cycle through my options. Lie, manipulate, threaten, kill. I can’t handle this like a mercenary, though. I need to think like the human being Lucia expects me to be if I’m going to have any kind of presence in her daughter’s life.
“I think you want me to say that I’m in love with Isabel and I should have told her that at some point while we’ve been running for our lives. Maybe I should have, but the truth is, I don’t know what that feels like yet. I’m not normal. I’m not like this Kolt guy.”
“He’s not good for her,” she says abruptly.
I stare, hoping to unlock her cryptic look and the meaning behind her statement. Her trying to steer Kolt away at the door the other day and her swift intervention between us had taken me off guard. She knows things about him.
“Why do you say that?”
“His family… They’re not good people.”
I didn’t expect they would be. Anyone with that much money and influence has secrets. Not the good kind.
The Red Ledger, Book 3 Page 1