The Red Ledger: 8

by Meredith Wild

  A groaning creak draws my attention up to where Tristan is standing in the doorway of the church. I should be worried about us getting caught, but all I can do is laugh. When I do, he smiles and waves me forward.

  I climb the steps and pass through the church’s columns to meet him. “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

  He grins. “I guess security’s not too tight in God’s house.”

  As he says it, I question being here. We could have admired the church and moved along. Tristan’s made his aversion to this kind of place known before. Maybe the fact that I’m still shell-shocked makes it possible for him to overlook his reservations for now.

  We walk inside, our footsteps echoing off the walls and beautiful arched ceiling. This place is designed to awe and to humble. I feel both acutely.

  Tristan walks ahead of me and begins lighting the candles sitting on a tiered stand behind the pews.

  “It’s five cents to light a candle,” I tease, pointing to the laminated sign taped to the stand.

  He reaches into his wallet and stuffs a hundred-dollar bill into the little metal box for donations. “There. Absolved.”

  I lean my cheek against his shoulder, watching the flames flicker. The burning wicks mix with the smell of old wood and must. It’s cold, and for all the reasons why I shouldn’t want to be here, I’m grateful I am.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, not taking my eyes off the rows of lit candles meant for prayers. “I guess I needed some peace.”

  He strokes his thumb rhythmically across my skin where our hands are grasped again. “You’re still good, Isabel. You have to believe that.”

  I shake my head against him. I’m not good, and I’m no one’s miracle. Not anymore.

  “How am I supposed to feel good about what I did today?” I can’t hide the tremor in my voice.

  “Sometimes you have to fight a war to have peace.” He squeezes my hand before bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “And to win a war, you have to be ruthless. It’s the only way.”

  I close my eyes, fighting the sting behind them. Tristan speaks a hard truth. My mother may have raised me to be a thoughtful, careful child, but this war has forced me to peel back my skin to see what I’m truly made of. My ruthless insides, a teeth-baring will to survive and protect, a determination to walk a path paved in blood if it gives us our lives back.

  Surviving this will leave me in scars. Today will be a scar. Tristan wears his with a hardened kind of grace. They’re ugly and true, like his words. I have to find it in me to accept all of it.

  “Come on,” he whispers, guiding me away from the flickering lights and my sadness.

  We walk around, our soft words echoing lightly through the huge empty space. Set back from the aisles of the church, Saint Paul with his staff stands in stone against the backdrop of a stained-glass window. I trace the thin chain that hangs around my neck until I reach the molded pendant and hold it between my fingers.

  Centuries of prayer cling to these old walls. In the stillness, I send off one of my own. A prayer for forgiveness and a vow that once this war is won, we’ll do better. We’ll be better.

  Our forbidden tour brings us to the back of the church, where we leave the way Tristan broke in. The sky has gone from midnight to a dusty shade of blue that promises dawn.

  “Where to next?” Tristan says. “We have Paris to ourselves for a little while longer.”

  I’m tempted, but the weight of the day and walking the worry off my mind have me wishing for our soft bed at Le Bristol.

  “I think the hotel is our safest bet before you get us arrested.”

  He smirks. “They’d have to catch us first.”

  TRISTAN

  Gunshots ring out, a distant sound that penetrates the thin walls of our tent. Someone’s probably going to die tonight. Maybe one of them. Maybe one of us.

  I can’t remember what day of the week it is. It never matters here. All I know is I can hardly remember what home feels like. The house is gone. Mom’s gone. Home doesn’t even really exist for me anymore.

  I roll onto my back and stare into the darkness. I should pop a few of the sleeping pills all the guys have been relying on to get through the nights and knock myself out. Even if there weren’t a war going on outside, thoughts of Isabel make it impossible to rest.

  I got another letter from her today. I read it in private so no one would give me shit about it. I even tried to catch her scent on the lined paper. What I would give to have a day with her. Hell, an hour.

  The distance between us is agony. She feels it too. She tries to sound upbeat, but I can read her sadness between the lines. Her truth. How many days of missing me can she endure? How many can I? Once this tour is over, they’ll station me somewhere for a while. Maybe California, maybe somewhere she’ll never want to live. I try to imagine her being part of this life, but I can’t. I really thought one day we’d get married, maybe have a family. But the stories the guys tell, tales of betrayal and people growing apart, are a constant reminder of all the ways this can go wrong.

  Things change. People change. We’re both rolling the dice that this can last or that I’ll even live through this sprawling war that has no end in sight. If I don’t, how much time will she have wasted waiting for me to come home?

  It’s never going to work.

  I can’t stop saying it in my head. The more I say it, the more I believe it.

  I sit up, sneak out of the tent, and head for the main tent. A couple of people on the B shift are hanging around watching TV, not caring what I do. I swipe a notepad from one of the desks and sit down to write Isabel a letter.

  It’ll be the last letter she gets from me. I promise myself this as I search for the right words. The best words. I won’t drag this out. I won’t make her wonder if we can find a way to work it out. For her sake, she needs to believe it’s really over.

  Even as I figure out how I’m going to destroy any lingering hope she carries for our future together, I cling to some of my own. Maybe when I’m out of the military, I’ll be in a better place. Financially, emotionally. Maybe we can try again if she hasn’t fallen in love with someone else.

  The mere thought of someone else having her love makes me hurt everywhere. God, I miss her so much. I can’t make myself forget the way she smiles, the way she tastes, the way her body gives under me. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, refusing to allow an emotional outburst.

  It’s never going to work. I have to give her up.

  Finally, I pick up the pen with shaky hands and start to write.

  Isabel—

  There isn’t much to do here but think about my life. Being over here has changed a lot for me. I thought enlisting would buy us a better future, but I realize now that I was wrong. Sometimes I wonder if I left because deep down I knew things weren’t going to work between us. Our lives have always been too far apart. It’s only going to get worse.

  I swallow hard in disbelief that I’m really doing this. I’m ending it. I can’t end it here, though. More needs to be said. This is the part where I wish I could tell her what she’s meant to me. How she held me together during the darkest time of my life. I should tell her how much I love her—that I’ll never love anyone the way I’ve loved her. That would be the truth, but now I have to lie. For her sake, I need to lie.

  I feel sick. I should rip the sheet off and throw it into the trash. I should be stronger than the voice in my head that keeps reminding me we’re doomed to fail. Instead, I keep writing.

  I’m sorry it took so long for me to tell you this. I guess I wasted a lot of time pretending we could be anything more, but I think this is the best thing for both of us.

  They’re moving us to another base in a couple of weeks, so if you write me again, I won’t get it. I’m sorry I couldn’t do this face-to-face. You deserve more. I’m sorry.

  —Tristan

  I reread it over and over again. I fold it up, resolve to read it once more after a shitty night�
�s sleep, and will send it off knowing that in a few weeks, she’ll know what I know. That we’re over.

  I suck in a ragged breath and jolt upright.

  Sweat cools on my skin as I relive the vivid dream that feels more like a nightmare.

  The letter. The camp. The ache of missing Isabel, then losing her for her good. The last goodbye that wasn’t even a goodbye I wanted.

  Why did I do it? How could I do it?

  Tearing Isabel out of my life now would rip me to shreds after everything we’ve been through. I couldn’t even do it to save her from this horror show of hunting down the Company. I couldn’t let her go…and I never will.

  The door unlocks, and she slips inside our room soundlessly until she notices I’m awake.

  “I thought you were still sleeping.”

  I swallow over the knot in my throat, forcing myself to let go of what’s already gone. But one look at Isabel compounds my guilt, because now I know what I put her through. For six years, she kept me in her heart when I gave her every reason to forget me and the pain I inflicted.

  “Is everything okay?” She walks over to the bed and sits beside me. “Was it another dream?”

  Her voice washes over me like the sweetest salve. Her presence is water in the desert. My own personal Eden. I’ll never deserve her, but I’ll never make the mistake I made all those years ago.

  I shake my head. I don’t know how to communicate any of this to her. It’s all too much.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can manage.

  “Why? What happened?”

  I take her hand, needing the physical connection between us. “You know, I kept your picture with me all the time.”

  She blinks a few times. “My picture?”

  “When we were back in DC, I met with an old army friend. He was the only one who made it out of that last mission alive besides me. I wanted to know what really happened so I could piece more of it together. Afterward, he asked about you. Totally threw me off, because last he knew, we were over. He didn’t seem to think we really were, though. He said I’d try writing you a letter every week and set it on fire before I gave in and sent it to you. I kept your picture pinned on the wall until the very end. Until it all went black, I guess.”

  Her eyes glisten with tears. Two glittering pools of understanding. My heart’s in my throat again. I’ll never be able to show her how sorry I am. For all of it. Every shred of unhappiness I’ve ever caused her.

  “It’s okay.” Her voice is a watery whisper. “I held on to you too. Every day.”

  “I broke your heart.”

  “It was worth it.” She smiles sadly. “We’ve been through hell, and I’d walk through it all over again to be with you.”

  I bring her into my arms and hold her. I breathe her in. I have her now. The past is gone. Maybe one day I can make up for all this hurt.

  When I let her go and pull away, I’m far enough from the torment of sleep to notice the laptop under the newspaper in her hand.

  “What is this?”

  “Oh, it’s Knight’s laptop.”

  “You’re kidding. How the hell did you get your hands on that?”

  Her lips quirk up with a mischievous little smile. “I called Landon to find out what room Knight was staying in at La Réserve. You were sleeping so soundly, so I walked over and swiped a master key from one of the cleaning carts. Pretty easy, actually.”

  “Look at you. My little assassin is all grown up.” I never thought I’d have a literal partner in crime, but in this moment, I don’t even feel bad about it.

  She preens a little. “I was careful, don’t worry.” She sets the newspaper flat on the bedspread. “The fire at Chalys made front-page news, but I don’t think anyone has a clue that Knight is missing yet. It’ll probably take a while for Simon to figure it out. But when he does, we should probably be a long way from here.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not the press they were wanting.”

  “It’ll definitely push back the Felix launch in Europe. Whatever Crow did in there caused enough damage that they’ll be shut down for a long time.” She pushes the laptop to the side. “Unfortunately the computer is password protected, but Landon is going to do his thing and try to find something useful on it.”

  “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “No, but when he finds out Knight’s out of the picture, I don’t think he’s going to be too heartbroken about it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Isabel

  I’m reading Le Monde, trying to make sense of some of the other articles with my limited French, while Tristan puts a dent in our massive room-service order.

  “So where to?”

  I shift the paper to see him just as he clears one of his plates. “Huh?”

  “You were right,” he says. “We should get out of Paris. As soon as Simon figures out we’re behind this, he’ll be trying to track us down again. So… Where to?”

  I contemplate his question. In truth, I’ve been contemplating it since before we boarded the plane to Paris. I razor my teeth along my bottom lip, unsure how Tristan will feel about what I have to say.

  His stare is unflinching. “What’s on your mind?”

  I take a deep breath and set the paper down. “I think we should go back to DC.”

  He pauses a moment. “Any particular reason?”

  “I know the plan was to reach out to my dad so he could tip off the right people about the incoming drug shipments.”

  “And…”

  I chew on the corner of my nail. “And the more I thought about it, the more I doubted whether it would do any good. The information we have is so spotty. I mean, we know the ports, but the volume of goods going in and out of these places is probably massive. Even if they stepped up their inspections, the chance of them catching anything is still extremely small. So I was waiting until we knew more and I could give him a better picture of what’s happening.”

  “Okay. That makes sense. Why do you seem so apprehensive about that, though?”

  I stare down at my lap and trace the seam of my jeans back and forth. My dad’s part in Tristan’s enlistment has been haunting me since I found out about it. Unless my mother told my father about the letter I found, he has no idea I’ve been digging this invisible chasm between us. A space filled with a betrayal too painful to revisit until I absolutely had to.

  “I’ve been nervous about reaching out to him at all,” I admit. “Even connecting with my mom about the Halo files was difficult. But my dad…”

  “You still haven’t forgiven him.”

  I shake my head. “No, but I want to. When this is over, I need to let it go. I have to. I’m carrying so much of this shit around with me as it is. I can’t change what he did, and neither can he.”

  “Then forgive him. Let it go. Then we can ask for his help.”

  “There’s something else that’s been weighing on me. It’s not something we really have time to deal with right now. I don’t know how to ask my father for help when he doesn’t even understand what we’re truly up against.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You want to tell him everything.”

  “And that means telling him the truth about Mariana.”

  Tristan leans back and tosses his napkin on the table. “You really don’t think Lucia’s told him already?”

  “I think it’s something she’d take to the grave if I let her. I mean, she couldn’t even tell me until she had to arrange a fake funeral for me. She’s held this grudge on her own all these years. Not to mention she’s done things that would compromise my father’s career if anyone ever found out.”

  “She let him believe a lie that saved him the pain and anguish she’s carried around for the both of them.”

  “You’re right, but I don’t know if he’ll see it like that. At least not right away. This is… It’s not an infidelity. It’s almost worse. I don’t want to be the one to destroy what they have together, but I can’t hang on to this lie with her for the
rest of my life.”

  “You shouldn’t need to.”

  “Well… That means telling him or convincing my mother she needs to.”

  “Then we’ll go to DC and regroup. Maybe you can talk some sense into Lucia, and we’ll cross our fingers that Morgan doesn’t go nuclear when he finds out. In the meantime, we’ll get Landon scouring Knight’s laptop for more information. Hopefully he can track the account number Mateus was given to a name.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Follow every sign that points to Simon.”

  There’s no lightness to Tristan’s voice when he says it. The end of this journey is the end of Simon. We both know it.

  “We can probably get a flight to Dulles tomorrow.”

  “Let’s book it.” He reaches for a croissant and breaks the flaky heaven in half. “In the meantime, I say we eat our way through this city.”

  The airport is teeming with travelers on a Saturday afternoon. Every culture and language seem to be represented as we go through the motions of checking in and advancing through the long security line. Through it all, I’m sweating, not only because we’re late being stuck in this rush, but the effort to look innocently calm takes more energy than I would have ever guessed. Ever since Tristan sent me home from Brazil with a fake passport—one that could have landed me in custody—I’ve appreciated not having to fly again. Until Paris.

  I hold my breath through the full-body security scanner, releasing it when the TSA agent waves me through. Tristan grabs our bags off the belt, and together we navigate the small terminal and hurry toward our gate.

  I check the time on my phone against the boarding time on the paper ticket in my hand. “We have five minutes.” The impact of running into Tristan’s back momentarily stuns me. “Tristan, what the—”