Erasing Faith(73)

“I’m sorry I don’t have more details for you.” Conor’s voice was kind. “My mom called early this morning to let me know. I came straight here to tell you.”

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper, once I’d regained some composure.

I saw him nod in my peripheral and I could feel his gaze scanning my face. A moment of silence passed as I waded through the emotions warring for space inside my mind.

How could I go home?

How could I not go home?

It had been three years… wasn’t I safe from the ghost of boyfriends past, by this point?

Wes wasn’t looking for me. He’d probably never been looking for me. I bet I could’ve stayed Faith Morrissey for the rest of my life and never seen him again. After all — none of it had been real, for him. I’d been nothing more than a mark.

I thought of my Dad — my crazy, quirky, too-much-tie-dye-for-his-own-good Dad. And, suddenly, my skull emptied of all those chaotic thoughts tumbling around in free fall.

The slim chance that Wes was trying to find me by keeping tabs on my family wasn’t enough to justify staying away.

Not when they needed me.

I raised my eyes to look at Conor and listened to my own voice, wavering and uncertain, as it broke the quiet. I sounded like a stranger to my own ears.

“Conor?”

He jolted. I never used his first name — not anymore. Not since I’d become Fae.

Clearing his throat, he quickly recovered. “Yeah, Montgomery?”

“I think…” I swallowed hard. “I’m going home.”





Chapter Forty-One: FAITH


HOME SWEET HOME



I don’t remember much of my last two plane rides.

The trip home from Budapest — actually, pretty much everything from the time I woke up in the hospital to the time I landed in the States — was a blur. I know that me, Margot, and a handful of other American couriers were pumped for information by men in dark suits for hours, answering their questions about Hermes and looking through mugshots as we tried to help the CIA piece together who had been working inside the organization. I don’t remember what questions they asked or what names were inscribed on their badges. I don’t know if I was helpful to them.

I do know that there was a debriefing of sorts.

A tearful goodbye to Margot.

A plane ride home to California.

But those memories were clouded by a fog of unrelenting grief and sheer disbelief.

For months, I’d been a zombie — a living girl with a dead soul. As though I’d died in the fire that day but my corpse refused to stop functioning.

Thankfully, I was much more conscious for this plane ride.

I spent the five-hour flight trying not to fidget in my seat as I thought about seeing my family for the first time in years. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming — hopefully, my showing up would be a welcome surprise, rather than an unexpected imposition. Family reunions, even under the best of circumstances, were always stressful. And these were not the best of circumstances — not by a long shot.

As the plane landed and taxied to the gate, I tried to breathe deeply and assure myself that everything would be all right. I powered on my cell phone and saw that during the flight, I’d missed a call from an unknown number. Unease stirred in my belly as I dialed my voicemail box and listened to the unfamiliar Australian accent speaking into my ear.

“Miss Montgomery — this is Roger Callahan. You left me a message about one of my previous tenants… a Miss, uh…” There was a pause, as though he was reading her name off a piece of paper. Not a good sign. “Miss Mills.”

Clearly, Margot wasn’t living there anymore.

“I’m sorry to have missed you. Give me a call back at this number, when you have a chance. There are some things we should probably talk about.”

The line clicked off.

Crap. From the sound of things, Margot had gotten herself into trouble. Maybe she’d skipped out on her rent and owed him some money, I reasoned, ignoring the anxiety rumbling in my gut. But he hadn’t sounded angry — he’d sounded almost sympathetic. Like he felt sorry for me.

I tried not to think about what that might mean as I called back the number and listened to it ring for several long moments until his voicemail finally picked up.

This game of phone-tag was starting to get on my nerves.

I’d begun to dial again, but stopped when I realized the plane had reached the gate. The mystery of Margot Mills would have to wait another few hours, at least.

Hurrying through the terminal, I jostled alongside my fellow passengers, trying to beat the rush to the baggage claim. It was a shame I’d had to check my luggage, but certain items — like my Lady Smith and the three clips of ammo that accompanied her — were a big no-no in carry-on bags, unless you wanted to piss off the TSA agents and end up on several no-fly lists. It was a pain in the ass, but traveling unarmed wasn’t an option. My pistol had, in many ways, become my security blanket.

Thankfully, my small black duffel was one of the first bags off the carousel. The heels of my Chanel boots clicked steadily against the tile floors as I headed toward the rental car service. My pace was brisk, my face serene but unapproachable. Not a trace of the flailing, starstruck girl who’d stumbled through the airport three years ago, eager to start her first-ever adventure, was visible anymore.