Maya Banks - The Darkest Hour

“Shit,” Terrence bit out. “That told us absolutely nothing.”

Rio rose to his feet and frowned. He didn’t like any of this. “Let’s get the fuck out of here so I can report back to Sam.”

“Steele will be disappointed,” Terrence said with a wry grin. “It already pissed him off that we wouldn’t wait for him to go in.”

“Fuck Steele. He doesn’t run my team. He needs to take care of his injured instead of worrying about what we’re doing.”

“Do we tell him now so he doesn’t make the trip, or do we let him get over here before we let him know the mission is an abort?”

Rio grinned as he and Terrence exchanged sly looks. Pissing Steele off was about the most amusement they got these days.

“Gather everyone up and let’s make tracks. I don’t want to be here in case whoever bloodied the jungle decides to come back.”

Terrence’s hand went into the air, but he wore a slight smile. Nothing had been decided about Steele, but they both knew they’d let him come in hot and then take the wind out of his sails.

They took their fun where they could get it.

THE dream tormented her. It was more vivid this time. More real. Even though she was still ensconced in the scene unrolling before her, she fought, not wanting to relive the nightmare all over again.

Ethan stood in their living room. His face was drawn into harsh, angry lines. He was shouting and she stood, stunned, all the fight gone.

Then he turned to the bookshelf. Her bookshelf that housed countless volumes of literature, her teaching manuals, her romance novels that she so loved. He pulled a sheaf of papers from between two of the books and shoved them at her.

They had significance, but what?

She could feel herself breaking. Could feel the despair that swamped her.

She roused herself from sleep and sat up in bed, her heart beating wildly. She glanced down to see Ethan still sleeping solidly beside her, and she put her hand on his arm to reassure herself.

Still, the sick feeling inside her festered. Why was she having these dreams? Was she so insecure that her fears of losing him had inserted themselves into her subconscious?

Or were they memories?

The thought slammed into her with painful intensity. Sure, she remembered more of her life every day. Little things. Bits and pieces that eventually formed the whole puzzle.

She rolled out of bed, nausea forming in her belly. Ethan loved her. She loved him. He hadn’t given her any reason to believe differently.

Chill bumps raced up her bare legs, and she hastily pulled on a pair of sweatpants and grabbed another of Ethan’s T-shirts from his drawer.

The bookshelf. Surely that would prove whether or not this was all some bad nightmare or if it was in fact an elusive memory.

God, maybe she really was cracking up. She could blame it on the stress of her accident. She was having paranoid delusions. First someone was out to kill her, and now her husband was hiding mysterious documents in between books.

She walked into the dark living room and stared fearfully at the bookshelves. How on earth was she supposed to know where, between what books? She had six bookcases and more books than she could shake a stick at.

She switched on the lamp at the desk and then stared at the books. She closed her eyes and tried to recall the dream. He was standing between two and in front of one, so the one in the middle. Which side?

Encyclopedias. Shoulder level for him so a bit taller for her.

She crossed the room and rose up on tiptoe to pull out one of the encyclopedias. Surprise, surprise, nothing there. She went down the row, feeling more like an idiot with each volume she pulled out.

She was ready to give up when she got to the third from the last and a set of folded papers fell onto the floor when she yanked the book out.

Her heart plummeted and she stared down at then like they were some hideous creature about to take her leg off.

Carefully, she reshelved the encyclopedia and stepped back, still staring down. Squatting down, she picked up the papers and walked back over to the desk so she could see in the lamplight.

She unfolded the papers, and at first couldn’t make sense of what they were. They were legal documents, that much she knew. It wasn’t until she’d read the first page three times that it sunk in.

Shock hit her with the force of a speeding train. Divorce. Ethan had filed for divorce.

She put one hand over her stomach as nausea bubbled and boiled deep in her belly. Oh God.

She closed her eyes as bits and pieces of that awful day came back to her. So much of it was still fuzzy, but she couldn’t get Ethan’s furious face out of her head.

He hated her. He wanted out of their marriage. God, some of the things he accused her of.

Her hand flew to her mouth. He’d accused her of having an affair with Garrett. Was any of it true? God, she couldn’t remember!

She sank into the chair at the desk and buried her face in her hands as more of that day bombarded her. Ethan said he was tired of living this way. He hadn’t wanted her to go on her mercy mission to South America. He’d told her there was plenty to fix right here at home so why was she going off to some shithole on some do-gooder mission?

It was more than that. His kind of unhappiness didn’t happen overnight, and she could remember her own misery, the feeling that no matter what she did, she’d never make it right. That there was no hope for their marriage. And yet it destroyed her when he pulled out those papers.

He hated her. He didn’t love her anymore. And then she’d died. Had he been glad? Why the big farce now? Did he feel guilty?

His family didn’t know. The thought popped into her head. She remembered how trapped she felt because she didn’t feel like she could go to his family; she’d die before allowing them to know the extent of her marital problems. Ethan wouldn’t have gone to them either, so they wouldn’t have known how awful things were.

Oh God, so was that why he was now acting like she was the love of his life? Why? God, why?

There was too much she didn’t know, that she needed to know. She had to get out of this house before she screamed the walls down.

Garrett. He’d always been there for her. Always. But had they betrayed Ethan? No. It wasn’t possible. She’d loved Ethan. Had been devastated when he asked for a divorce—no, demanded a divorce.

But Garrett would know. He’d have some of the answers. The time for her to be silent and keep everything to herself was over. She had no one else. Only Ethan, and now she knew she didn’t even have him.

She choked back a sob as she got up. Garrett had left keys to his truck on the kitchen table. Sam had come to pick him up so she and Ethan would have transportation until they replaced Ethan’s truck.

It was impossibly dark outside when she hurried out to Garrett’s truck. She hadn’t bothered to check the time, and now as she drove toward the same bridge she’d nearly gone off of earlier, panic gripped her.

Her palms were slick with sweat, and her breathing was so shallow she felt light-headed. As she approached, she slowed and almost pulled over to the side. She had a cell phone. Garrett’s number was programmed. He could come get her.

With a snarl of disgust, she stepped on the accelerator and barreled over the bridge. She kept to the far inside lane and didn’t spare a glance at all the police tape and the barricades erected around the gaping hole.

“No one can save you now but you,” she chanted to herself. Maybe if she said it often enough it would sink in.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into the gravel drive of Sam’s lake house and parked Garrett’s truck beside Sam’s. With Donovan taking off so late—or early—they probably hadn’t gotten much sleep—if any—and now she was barging in.

She searched her tattered memories for some idea that she was mistaken about her relationship with Garrett, but all she could come up with was the sense of a close friendship.

At the door, she hesitated and spent several long seconds working up her courage. She rubbed damp palms down her sweatpants and mentally chided herself for being such a wimp.

With shaking hands, she knocked and then rolled her eyes. Like they’d hear that? She pressed the doorbell several times instead and waited, anxiety eating a hole in her stomach.

The door yanked open, and she instinctively took a step back as she stared warily at Sam. He wore gym shorts, no shirt, and he had a scowl that made her swallow.

The scowl disappeared when he stared back at her. Worry instantly replaced his irritation, and he too took a step back as if to not seem more threatening.

“Rachel? Honey, is everything okay?”

She would not cry. Would. Not. Cry. She made painful facial contortions to maintain her composure as she stared back at him.

“I need to see Garrett,” she said haltingly.

Sam opened the door wider then reached for her arm. “I’ll get him. Come in and have a seat. Where’s Ethan? Is there something wrong?”

Again the threat of tears nearly undid her. She expelled her breath in halting jerks, and she bit into her bottom lip as she followed him inside.

“Ethan is at home,” she said softly. “He’s fine.”

Sam’s sharp gaze flickered over her, and it was obvious he didn’t miss that she’d left herself out of the “okay” equation. He motioned for her to sit on the couch, but she couldn’t. She’d go crazy.

He left the room, and just a few moments later, Garrett came barreling into the living room, his hair mussed, concern creasing his forehead. Sam followed behind now wearing a shirt and a pair of jeans.