Erasing Faith(82)

At least, I told myself the wind was the reason for my tears.





Chapter Forty-Five: FAITH


PUPPET MASTER



Ten hours later, I was back where I’d started — on a dirt road in the middle of the woods, with only the man who’d destroyed my life for company. At least this time I wasn’t falling out of a trunk.

I was, however, so exhausted, I nearly fell off the back of the motorcycle by the time we slowed to a stop. As the hours had ticked by, it became a monumental effort to keep my eyes from drooping closed or my arms from slackening.

It was fully dark now, and a million stars blanketed the night sky overhead. The only sound besides our quiet footfalls was the chorus of countless cricket legs, chirping in unison. We didn’t speak as he wheeled the bike off the road into the trees. There was no path that I could see, but I followed along mutely, too tired to care much where he was leading me. Between being kidnapped by the man I hated for ruining my life, finding out that my best friend was dead, being nearly murdered myself, and then being rescued by said life-ruining ex-love… this had pretty much been the worst day of my life.

I was ready to close my eyes, fall asleep, and let it come to an end before any more bad shit could happen.

Like the zombie apocalypse. Or a nuclear bomb.

Because, at this point, those were the only things that could actually make this day worse.

Or, so I thought, until we made it through the woods to a small clearing and I saw the tiny, one bedroom cabin I’d be forced to share for the foreseeable future with the man who’d broken my heart.

“I hope you’re not a cover-hog,” Wes said, his voice light. “There’s only one bed.”

Fuck.

***

The smoky scent of a blown-out match still drifted in the stale cabin air. I could see the concern on his face, illuminated by the faint yellow light of the lantern. I knew he didn’t understand why I’d gone from crazed to comatose in the few hours that had passed since he last saw me.

“Here.” He passed me a cup of water.

I nodded in thanks, wrapping my hands around the glass and taking a small sip. My throat felt hoarse, like I’d been screaming at the top of my lungs, though in truth I hadn’t made a sound for hours. The grief, the fury, the resentment I felt were so thick, they filled my chest cavity, blocked my airway. There was no outlet — I was choking on them.

“We’ll be safe here. I bought this place a few years back, in case I ever needed to disappear. It’s completely off the grid.” He walked to the front windows and pulled the curtains firmly closed. “In a few days, this will all be over. Then you can…” He trailed off and turned to glance at me with look I couldn’t quite decipher.

I raised one eyebrow in question.

He swallowed roughly. “Then… you can go back to your life.”

I stared at him for a moment, then dropped my eyes to the floor so he couldn’t read the sadness in them.

There was no going back. I couldn’t return to pretending that my past didn’t exist, that Margot hadn’t died.

My happy, uncomplicated life in New York was over.

A few minutes passed in silence. There was nothing to say — there was everything to say. And yet, I had no words.

“If you’re worried about your car — don’t. The agency has people who’ll take care of it,” he assured me. “It won’t be a problem.”

I nodded robotically. I didn’t give a shit about my car. Whether my rental deposit covered things like bullet holes or airport abandonment was the farthest thing from my mind, at the moment.

“Are you hurt?” he asked abruptly, stepping closer to me. His voice was gentle.

I shook my head.

“Are you scared?”

Another head shake.

“Well, then what the hell is the matter with you?” Though his words were gruff, his voice was soft as a whisper — like he was talking to a lost child. If I’d had the energy, I would’ve found it condescending.

I glanced up at him, my eyes empty.

Watching my face, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I’ve never heard you be silent for this long. Frankly, it’s freaking me out.”

I cleared my throat, but my voice still cracked when I spoke. “What would you like me to say?”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Anything. Cry, scream, yell if you want to. Call me a bastard. Threaten to shoot me. Hell, I don’t know.” He blew a breath through his lips. “Just not this mute shit.”

I let the duffel fall from my fingertips, listened to the gentle thud of the bag as it hit the floor. My purse soon followed suit.

“Margot’s dead.” I said the words in a voice devoid of feeling.

I saw his eyes widen slightly as his gaze roamed my face, finally recognizing the traces of grief there. He lifted his hand, reaching out as if to offer comfort, but caught himself and stopped before his fingers made contact with my skin. His hand fell uselessly back to his side. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it.

“Red… I’m sorry.”

The tears came, then — huge, wracking, silent sobs that shook my shoulders — and I felt his hand settle on my arm in a light, hesitant stroke. The feeling of his palm against my skin, touching me with kindness, was unbearable.