Chapter 22
MAE
“See you in LA.”
That was the last thing Marco said before he hit me with another dose of Valium shortly after takeoff. It turns out I slept the entire journey and was only awoken by the bumpy touchdown on the tarmac.
That’s when the pain took hold, and a new reality cruelly set in.
My husband is dead, his body in a foreign country. The tight-knit Cooper family will demand answers. Worse, I’ll be forced to engage with Carlson and wear a straight face as I lie to his.
Will he know that his vile secret will no longer be taken to the grave?
“It’s going to feel strange,” Marco says quietly while pushing open the front door to my house. My memory draws blanks, and I can’t even recall the ride home from the airport. But somehow, we’re here, and I don’t want to be.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I cross the threshold, and just like when I saw Peter lying dead on the hotel floor, I now feel nothing.
Except what was once my home now feels like it always belonged entirely to my husband.
It’s as if he’s still here. His breath around every corner as he preyed upon me, the footsteps coming down the stairs that always caused an excruciating thud against my ribcage.
This house has been my prison.
I look around and see his things. His array of shoes on the entry rack. The keys to his Range Rover on the hall table. His Ram’s cap on the kitchen counter. The mess from his last meal he never bothered tidying.
A grilled cheese.
They are little reminders of the biggest mistake of my life.
Marco takes my hand and leads me to the chaise lounge in the living room. Sitting opposite on the coffee table, he faces me. With dark circles and eyes not as bright, he’s tired. Long days and nights that blended into one of watching Peter and protecting me from him.
“I’m here for you, Mae. Please don’t think you’re alone in this.”
This man owes me nothing, yet his championing began the very first time Peter and I drove up to the Shaws’ gate. When Marco’s stare met mine through the window, it was one of genuine concern. He never wanted any of this for me, and in hindsight, I believe he may have entertained the idea of telling the none-the-wiser Mae Ellison to turn away and never look back.
“Thank you,” is all I can manage through the vice-like grip on my throat.
There’s a hesitant second that follows because there are still rules to comply with. “Understandably, you may not hear from Damon for quite some time. He has matters to sort out.” While it’s not Marco’s intention to place guilt, the guilt is mine. “I know what you’re thinking,” he squeezes my hand, and my blank stare meets his once more. “This isn’t your fault, Mae. You deserved none of what’s transpired. And, while it seems callous what I’m about to say, we just ask that with the challenging weeks ahead, you await instruction.”
I clear my throat and wince against the throbbing pain caused from the stitches pulling tender skin. The drugs are wearing off, and I’d give anything to feel numb again. “I know you’d all be worried about me talking, but I won’t say a word to anyone about what happened.” The words are croaky but don’t lack truth. “Jason already made my position clear. But he needn’t have had to because I would never want Damon to face any consequence.”
Saying his name aloud hurts so damn bad.
Marco’s smile is tight. “Not that I doubted you, but he reassured me that would be the case.” Pausing for a moment’s contemplation, he adds, “Damon has a lot of faith in you, Mae. And I know, despite everything, you still have faith in him.”
My bottom lip quivers, and I mentally beg it stop. “It doesn’t matter now. Peter’s dead, which means so is the contract. I’m no longer the means to an end.”
“Mae, it’s not as simple as that, and you know it.”
I force the whisper. “It has to be.” Our battle scars run too deep.
“Look at me.” Reluctantly, I do, and he swipes a rolling tear off my cheek with his thumb. “This whole situation became messy, fast, and you’d be justified in wanting to hurt every single one of us involved, but all I ask is that you give the man a chance to explain.”
Irreparable.
That’s what we are.
But had we met in another time, another place, Damon Shaw and Mae Ellison may have had the true love story they deserved.
“Will he be okay?”
Marco’s sharp inhale doesn’t spare any confidence. “We’re working on it.”
Through thick and thin, his allegiance is unwavering. I see it in his eyes—the kindness that lies just beyond the horrors of war. “I’m glad Damon has you on his side. You’re a loyal friend to him.”
“ Loyal is Damon. You’ll soon see.”
Our brief but intense history could argue against that. “You seem so certain he and I can salvage something.”
I’m met with a knowing smile. “I am. Because, without a doubt, I know you two will find each other again.”
~
Another three days pass before I see Marco.
He finds me in my studio—the one safe place where I’m not reminded every second of Peter. With all of my personal effects having been returned, being in the house has proven too much. I don’t venture far. I use the downstairs shower and toilet and spend the rest of my time in my art studio setting to work on my final canvas.
It’s a huge undertaking, but it will be the exhibit’s showpiece—the one that epitomizes us .
A gentle rap sounds at the door, and Marco steps in with boxes of takeout.
“Haloumi salad,” he says, holding up the bags.
Placing my brush in the jar of turpentine, I turn to fully face him. “How did you know that’s my go-to?”
He winks. “Take a guess.”
A bittersweet smile hurts more than one can ever comprehend.
Marco takes in the state of me when I pull my oversized woolen sweater tighter around my body. It’s not cold out, but I’ve been in a state of freezing since my return. It’s a feeling I can’t seem to shake, even when sitting in front of a foot heater at night.
“You look tired,” he says as if I might break. “Are you sleeping?”
No. I nod.
Spying the pillow and throw rug on the makeshift bed, Marco is largely unconvinced but chooses not to harp on the subject. Instead, he turns his attention to the painting, still in its beginning stages. “I’m pleased to see this.” A companionable silence settles between us, but the burning question and my hesitation to say his name aloud becomes too much, even for Marco. Thinning his lips, he nods. “He’s doing okay, Mae.”
A crushing weight settles on my chest because I need more.
I need him .
“In fact, he knows you can get so caught up in painting that you forget to eat, so this is courtesy of Mr. Shaw.”
I swallow my grief. “Is he back?”
A grim shake of the head threatens to derail me. “Not yet.”
Wrapping myself tighter, fear gets the better of me.
Can Damon survive this? Because I’m quickly realizing I can’t survive without him.
Distracting me from my own self-destruction, Marco points to the work in progress on the easel. Since it’s only in the blocking stage, it looks like nothing recognizable. “This will make him happy.”
Will it?
He’s facing a possible murder charge because of me. “I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see my face again.”
“Don’t go there, Mae,” Marco murmurs, keeping his eyes locked on the painting. “Enough people have taken it upon themselves to hurt you, some a lot more than others. Don’t torture yourself in their absence.”
I’ve been on my own for three days, not having seen or spoken to another soul. That’s three days too long to be lost in my head. “Marco,” I turn to face him, not caring that my cheeks are sodden with tears that never seem to dry, “I don’t want him to hate me.”
“That would never be the case.”
Life imprisonment might stand to change that. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because, Mae, you are all he cares about.”
~
“Tell me about her.”
Marco clears our remaining takeout and throws me a curious glance. “Who?”
“Your lady friend in Afghanistan. The one you mentioned when stitching my neck.”
He seems genuinely surprised. “You were listening?”
“Of course.” With just the warm glow of a lamp illuminating the studio, we settle back into opposite ends of the chaise, comfortable in each other’s company. Marco, seeing me shiver, drapes the throw blanket over my legs. “If it’s okay to ask, what is her name?”
He puffs his cheeks and exhales heavily, momentarily lost in a painful memory. “It’s okay. I just, ah… I haven’t said her name aloud in quite some time.” Folding tanned arms across his chest, he clears his throat. “Her name was Dalia.”
Past tense.
I wince, dreading that his love story doesn’t come with a happy ever after .
“She was a Jogi,” he continues. “A gypsy who was traveling through the countryside just north of Jalalabad when she found me gravely wounded.” Marco stares ahead, focused on nothing in particular because his mind is back in the Afghan desert. “My partner, Walsh, and I had just completed a hostage extraction when the radio call for pickup was intercepted by the Taliban. Those we were hiding from found us first, all forty of them, their numbers swelling the more we played cat and mouse through the city.
“Our hostage had been beaten to within an inch of his life, so I carried him on my back the entire journey. We were moving too slow, and they gained ground. It was the dead of night, and we darted between buildings, thinking we might actually make it out alive. Their shouting echoed down the streets, and with every passing second, they drew closer until finally, there was just nowhere left to go. We’d simply run out of city…” Marco pauses, caught in the clutches of his nightmare.
“Just a few yards before we made it to the outskirts, a grenade rolled off the roof and landed right beside the man we were sent to save.”
I can tell by the look in his eyes that it’s been an endless pursuit to desensitize himself from the horrors he’s faced.
“It was a goddamn mess. I couldn’t see the gore, but I felt it. Still, to this day, I can remember how it clung to my skin and coated my face. That’s why when I saw you…” Marco shakes his head and exhales once more.
“I understand,” is all I can offer because nothing can make that sort of memory bearable.
“Walsh, my partner, he, ah… he didn’t fare too well. His lower leg was blown off and burns covered most of his body. He wouldn’t live much longer, but I couldn’t leave him. Not when you know what they do to the bodies of dead soldiers. So, I cradled him in my arms and took off into the black void ahead. Somewhere in the distance were the mountains, and I ran for what felt like hours until I had nothing left in me. Then the adrenaline wore off, and I realized I hadn’t escaped without my own injury.”
Marco stands and lifts his black T-shirt to reveal the mass of thick pink and purple scarring covering the entirety of his left side, stretching around to midback.
“It travels all the way down to my knee,” he adds, lowering his shirt and sitting back opposite me.
“Marco, I’m so sorry.”
His small smile is one of survivor’s guilt. “Don’t be. I got out. Walsh died in my arms.” Marco’s nostrils flare as the finer details come back to haunt him. “His, ah… his last word to me was run .”
Moving closer, I place my hand over his. I simply cannot comprehend the fear and horror he must have felt and experienced in the dark desert all alone.
“And then she appeared,” he says, his rueful smile striking a pang in my heart. “An angel in the night. My beautiful gypsy with eyes that shone brighter than the moon. She didn’t hesitate, and without a word of English, she guided me to where she and her family had set up camp behind the mountains, safe from the burning fires from town. Her father took my partner’s body, but I just knew he would be treated kindly. They were gentle people. And then there was Dalia, something else entirely.”
I wish I could capture this moment for Marco. They way his entire face lights up with this cherished memory of her.
“In a patchwork tent with just a candle burning, Dalia treated my burns as best she could and wrapped my leg with a scarf. There was nothing she could do about the shrapnel. It was lodged so deep I’m surprised I didn’t bleed out. I was there for two days, passing in and out of consciousness. While she did everything to make me comfortable, I was making peace with God. Dalia kept me alive. I’m here today because of her. She would sing this beautiful song. I didn’t know the lyrics and didn’t care. I listened for as long as I could, never wanting to drift away. It’s what saw me through the most excruciating pain. I don’t think she once let go of my hand, but I could see the fear she tried hard to hide. She knew I wasn’t going to make it. But when Dalia’s brother returned with the wagon, they loaded me on and slid Walsh’s wrapped body next to mine. In the middle of the night, they took me far enough away that I could radio for a pickup location. Dahlia chose to stay. She nursed me until the Black Hawk landed and before they took me away, she tied this around my wrist,” Marco toys with the colorful band I’ve seen him always wearing. “A token that would forever remind me of her. From that day on, I’ve thought about her every morning when I wake and every night in my dreams.”
I have a sinking feeling this isn’t the end. The grief he carries is far more palpable than simply leaving someone behind.
“I spent months in recovery, having shrapnel removed from bone, skin grafts, battling with recurring infections. If it wasn’t for Dalia, I wouldn’t have survived, or worse, I would have been captured. So, as soon as I could, I called in a favor and that was to have the caravan of gypsies located to ensure they were safe.” Marco pauses, held hostage by the trauma to follow. I watch with deep sadness as his eyes glisten. “The Taliban had found them the same day I flew to safety. They’d found her and the remnants of my bloodied fatigues in the tent. Those men who’d hunted me for extracting an innocent man would get their revenge without even laying a finger on me. Because, for her involvement, they brutally raped and killed Dalia.”
No.
Hand over my mouth, I hide my emotion fearing it will only hurt Marco more.
“They threatened to kill anyone who tried to retrieve her for burial and left her mutilated, naked body under the Afghan sun for the vultures to feast on.”
“Marco…” I crawl over and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him close. He hugs me in return, and I feel his chest shake against mine, realizing for the first time the anguish and regret he’s held on to for so long.
I give him the time he needs until his heart stops racing and the memories find their place once more, compartmentalized for safekeeping, only to be called upon in times of self-loathing and reflection, which I hope isn’t often. Sitting back, I listen as he relocates his temporary closure.
“Six months after, I was honorably discharged with a Purple Heart, but I wasn’t the man I was before I entered the war. It’s amazing how fast you lose pieces of yourself. How things you once considered important no longer hold any value. How you never fully understand loss until the grief involved drags you to the darkest pits of hell. How the good in humanity simply no longer exists.”
I’m fortunate enough never to have seen war. Marco is a strong man, physically and mentally, but the PTSD he now battles with is a beast.
“I was fucked-up for a long time,” he admits. “At night, I hear her songs. Sometimes, they lull me to sleep. Other times, they pull me from my nightmares.” His rueful smile returns, and it breaks my heart. “It’s like she’s still my angel watching over me.”
“I believe that for you,” I whisper, gently wiping away his tears instead of my own.
“I never wanted Dalia’s death to be in vain, but there was a time when I couldn’t even stand the sight of myself in the mirror. Seeing my reflection had me wanting to end it all. I didn’t deserve to be alive when she and Walsh were dead. But then Damon came along, and it was he who saved me a second time.”
Hope, ever so mild, returns. “He did?”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever told about Dalia, but Damon knew enough to take me under his wing and put me back together again, piece by piece. He respected my privacy and gave me a reason to open the curtains and enjoy the heat from the sun once more.”
Everything good Marco sees in him, I also see. Damon has this innate need to have people rise from the ashes. My mistake was in thinking he was the one responsible for setting my life on fire.
“Mae, I understand he’s done some questionable things all in the name of business, but his loyalty is like no other. And Damon will just as easily go to war with the enemy if it means saving the ones he loves. Even if the enemy is himself.”