Page 70

“That is precisely what they want,” Tanvi said calmly. “They are testing your limits.”

“It worked.” Tristan stumbled, catching the edge of the dresser, his knuckles turning white against the polished oak. “It won't stop until I release Heartbreak.”

I rushed to him, but he held his hand up. “You can barely stand. Let me take a little more.”

“No!”

“I feel it for a few minutes at most while your suffering is constant. Please!” I could have dropped my shields and took some without touching him, it was that strong, but I refused to betray his trust.

So, I waited for him to take my hand, and then I dropped my mental barrier. Pain rushed into me again, but it wasn't as bad as the first round. I breathed through it, and Tristan also took a breath, steadying himself.

He jerked his hand away. “Okay, sweetheart, I'm good. Thank you.”

“Take the gray sedan.” Bart handed me some keys. “It has government tags. But Tristan, be smart. Don't let them lure you into a trap. Just get close enough to let Heartbreak do its thing and then leave. If they take you now, they get both of you.”

Tristan looked at me. “You should—”

“I'm going. I'm the only one who can lessen your pain.” I grabbed Tristan's coat and thrust it into his hands. “I'm driving.”

He gave in and left the suite with me, though he refused to take my hand. We used the elevator, which I hadn't known existed, and crossed the foyer. The cool air hit us, and Tristan sighed as he lifted his face. I located the gray sedan, and kept pace with him as he went to the passenger side. Heart racing, I got in the driver's seat and started the engine. As soon as we cleared the iron gates of the estate, Tristan leaned his head against the glass of the passenger window, his breathing shallow and tight.

“Where first?” I had to force myself to loosen my grip on the steering wheel.

“Head to Georgetown,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “I'll direct you from there.”

I pressed the gas pedal, weaving through the morning commuter traffic as we crossed into the city. The sky above the District was a clean, cold expanse of pale blue, utterly indifferent to the agony coiling inside the man next to me.

We found the spot ten minutes later—a narrow street lined with federal-style row houses, their front gardens strewn with bronze maple leaves. Two women stood on the sidewalk near the bottom of a flight of stone steps. One was clutching an old cardboard box filled with yellowed manila folders. The other stood with her arms crossed tightly over a wool coat, her face mottled red.

Tristan didn't get out of the car. He rolled down his window, leaning his forehead against the frame, his gaze fixed on them, and I felt something shiver through the air. “They're sisters. Their father died in August. They haven't spoken in thirty years.”

Through the open window, the sharp cadence of their voices carried over the hum of the car's engine. They didn't even notice us, they were too lost to their pain. As I watched, they shuddered and frowned. When they met each other's gazes again, their voices rose.

“You left!” the younger woman cried, her voice cracking. “You moved to Chicago and left me with his drinking, debts, all of it! And now you show up with his journals as if you know him!”

“I left because I was dying here!” Tears slid down the other woman's face. “I begged you to come with me, Sarah. I begged you every day for six months, but you chose to be a martyr instead of my sister!”

The words hung in the cold air, brutal and ugly. For a long, agonizing moment, neither woman moved. The grief between them was so heavy I could feel the static of it humming against my skin. I knew if I opened myself, I'd feel it as if it were my pain.

Then, the older woman let the box slip from her hands. It hit the pavement with a dull thud, spilling papers across the dry leaves. She stepped forward, her hands shaking, and pulled her sister into a fierce embrace. The younger woman stiffened for a second before burying her face in her sister's coat.

Beside me, Tristan let out a long, shuddering breath, and the vein pulsing in his temple settled. “Dupont Circle. A medical facility.”

We drove in silence, the rhythm of the city moving around us in a blur. At the second location, in a quiet courtyard behind a palliative care center, a gray-haired man sat on a concrete bench beside a woman in a wheelchair, her lap covered in a thick tartan blanket. The man was holding her frail, blue-veined hand between both of his, weeping openly.

Tristan leaned back against the headrest, listening to the frequency only he could hear. “He's telling her about their son. A car accident forty years ago. He gave the boy the keys, forgetting to remind him that the brakes were soft. He's carried his guilt ever since. She is dying, and he's finally telling her.”

I watched through the windshield as the woman slowly lifted her free hand, resting her palm against her husband's tear-streaked cheek. There was no anger in her face, only a profound, sorrowful tenderness as she pulled his head down to her shoulder.

“It isn't just ruin,” I said softly, looking at Tristan. “I knew it.”

He turned his tired eyes to me. “What?”

“Heartbreak,” I said. “Look at them, Tristan. This is what I meant last night. Heartbreak isn't just pain. It's cleansing. The truth breaks people open, but sometimes it's the only way to heal.”

“And when they don't?” he asked quietly. “When the truth simply destroys them?” He went on before I could answer. “U Street. A coffee shop. You'll see.”

The third encounter offered no tears of reconciliation. Outside a corner cafe, a young couple stood near a bicycle rack, speaking in low, venomous tones. The woman removed a silver ring from her finger and dropped it onto the sidewalk at the man's feet.