Erasing Faith(92)

“So good,” I murmured, staring at my empty plate. I’d singlehandedly destroyed the mountain of French fries and quarter-pounder the waitress had delivered fifteen minutes ago.

He continued to stare at me in silence, his eyes roaming my face.

“What?” I asked, my voice abrupt. My heart was beating a little too fast in my chest — I told myself it was from my impending food-coma, nothing more. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me?”

“Besides the fact that you just ate me under the table?” His lips twisted as he reached out and slowly handed me a napkin from the plastic dispenser. “You have ketchup on your face,” he said softly.

My cheeks flamed. “Oh,” I whispered, taking the napkin and feeling foolish.

“Are you done?”

I nodded. “I just want to use the bathroom.”

“Fine, be quick.” He looked over his shoulder at the empty diner and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. We’d been here an hour and the place hadn’t seen a single other customer. We were so far off the beaten track, I was surprised the place was even in business.

Not that I was complaining — the food had been phenomenal after two days of saltines.

I slid out of the booth and headed for the bathroom. It was a dingy little closet with poor lighting and dirty walls, but even so, it still beat peeing in the cabin. I relieved myself in peace for the first time in days and also got my first horrific glimpse in a mirror since this ordeal started.

Pulling off the atrocious baseball cap Wes had insisted I wear, I saw my face was drawn with grief and tension. There were shadows under my eyes, as though I hadn’t slept in ages, and there wasn’t a stitch of makeup to be found on my features. I made quick work of applying a touch of lipstick and a swipe of mascara, feeling instantly more like myself. I pointedly ignored the snarky portion of my brain that questioned whether my desire to clean up had little to do with me and a whole lot to do with the man who’d just seen my face covered in condiments.

Before leaving the bathroom, I pulled my gun from my purse and made sure it was still loaded. I was surprised to find it was — Wes hadn’t taken my bullets, as I’d suspected he might. Checking that the safety was still on, I slipped the pistol back into my bag and strolled out of the bathroom.

I froze a few feet from the table, eyes widening at the sight before me.

Wes was standing beside our booth, wiping down every surface we’d touched — from the utensils to the salt and pepper shakers — with a damp, disposable cleaning cloth.

“And here I always thought Mr. Clean was bald,” I sassed, giggling at the sight.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, but didn’t stop cleaning.

I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

He sighed audibly. “When I’m on a job, when I don’t want to be found… There’s a reason I pick places like this, with no security cameras. It’s the same reason I pay with cash and don’t chitchat with the waitresses. I don’t leave any traces.”

“Makes sense,” I murmured, looking away from him. My eyes were suddenly tingling for no apparent reason.

I don’t leave any traces.

Oh, but he did.

He might’ve wiped down every crime scene and removed all remnants of his DNA… Hell, he could’ve scrubbed every goddamn surface in Budapest. But the fingerprints he’d left all over my heart couldn’t ever be removed. They were invisible scars, reshaping my soul like a sculptor’s hands would the most malleable clay. Scored so deeply beneath the skin, he couldn’t have undone the damage even if he’d tried.

I stood, unmoving, as he brushed past me on the way to the bathroom I’d just used. He returned a moment later, dropped a few bills on the tabletop, and turned to me.

“Time to go,” he said, his hand finding the small of my back as he guided me out the door. He pulled the baseball cap down over his face as we walked past the waitress who’d served us, and I nodded goodbye with my own brim-shielded face averted.

I made sure not to touch the door handles when we stepped outside and climbed back onto his bike. The meal I’d just consumed turned to stone inside my stomach as I wrapped my arms around his torso and tried very hard not to cry.





Chapter Fifty-Two: FAITH


TRUTHS AND LIES



After our outing to the diner, another day slipped away with very little of interest to report.

With nothing to do, I grew so bored and stir-crazy, I would’ve welcomed the arrival of some heavily-armed assassins, if only to liven things up. Even arguing with Wes had lost its charm — we barely spoke as day faded into night, then day again.

As time went by, we developed an unspoken routine of sorts. Wes hated being stuck in the cabin so he’d disappear outside for most of the day, doing manly things like keeping watch and chopping logs and God only knew what else, which suited me just fine. I spent my time inside listening to an iPod that was quickly running out of battery, sketching on gum wrappers I found in the bottom of my purse, cleaning things that were already immaculate, and playing thousands of rounds of cards.

A single day of solitude and solitaire, and I’d been driven half-mad.

Which was, perhaps, the only explanation for why I thought it was a good idea to grab the whiskey from the cabinet, shove some matches in my pocket, and pull the quilt from the bed, as I headed out into the dusky twilight. Wes was nowhere in sight and, thus, couldn’t thwart my plans, which brought a smile to my lips for the first time all day.