Erasing Faith(72)

***

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 my 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 * 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.