CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Beaufort, South Carolina
December 11
Twitch was usually a sound sleeper—the sleep of the innocent—but the blustery December night had tree branches demanding entry at her window. More than that, though, the air stirred, a silent disruption in the quiet.
She sat up in bed. She should have screamed. Pulled the gun from the nightstand. Hit the security panic button. She didn’t. And she knew why.
The silhouette moved closer and, as it passed the window, the intermittent moon lit his scars.
“Finn?” She spoke softly. “What's going on?”
He sat at the foot of the bed and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
She hugged her knees to her chest and let him find the words.
“I’m going away for a while,” he said.
“How long?”
She observed his unmarred left profile as he lifted his head and stared out the window.
“I have to get right. I don’t know if I can, but I have to try.”
She nodded in the darkness. “I’m glad.”
“I don’t want you to hold out hope for me. Even if I manage some kind of normalcy, I’ll never be…” He tugged on his sandy hair. “I can’t be responsible for your happiness when I can’t even find my own. You have to take that burden off my shoulders.”
She didn’t wipe her tears. Didn’t pause to ponder his choice of word, burden. She simply nodded again. “It's okay, Finn.”
“Is it?” he asked.
“No.” She laugh-cried. “But it will be. I do have hope for that. I’ve always believed in you. That won’t ever change.”
Finn shook his head slowly as if she had spoken in another language. He gently slapped both thighs and stood. Twitch lifted her face to him as he moved to the head of the bed and bent down. Then, ever so gently, he placed a kiss on her forehead. “You need to give all that love to someone who knows what to do with it.”
She turned her head away. Too late.
He squeezed her delicate hand, stood to his full height, and turned to leave. Twitch held on and quietly said one word. It was the last word spoken in her room that night.
It was a word that said, I have faith.
It was a word that said, I forgive you.
It was a word that said, Goodbye.
“Stay.”
It was still dark as Finn McIntyre repacked his gear in the cheap oceanside motel room. He didn’t think. He didn’t feel. He just did. Clothes, Dopp kit, weapons, gear: everything went neatly into its place in the unmarked duffle.
His cell buzzed on the end table.
He read the text reply, tapped out another, and shut off his phone, hoping he hadn’t just made a colossal mistake.