Dead silence blanketed the room. After a moment, Rawls turned back to the amber bottle sunning itself on the windowsill.
“I’m no expert on you boys,” Pachico said, his voice a cross between dry and smug. “But sounds like he’s losing patience with you. I’ve got just the song to cheer you up, though. You ready to make that call? No? Five hundred bottles of beer on the wall—” Pachico’s voice broke into song as Rawls lifted the bottle of Tennessee Honey and twisted the cap. “Five hundred bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, four hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.”
Rawls took a pull straight from the bottle, wishing the smooth, slightly sweet fire burning down his throat had more of a bite to it.
Because sweet Jesus, he was looking at a long, long night.
Faith waited until the helicopter carrying Amy Chastain and her self-appointed rescue squad took to the skies before turning to the kitchen counter and picking up the plastic-wrapped plate with its thick roast beef sandwich. She paused at the front entrance of the main lodge, letting the dust devils settle before thrusting open the door. Trotting down the plank stairs, she headed across the earthen courtyard toward the largest cabin. Originally the rustic bungalow had housed all four SEALs. But then Lieutenant Cosky had set up house with Kait Winchester, and Zane with his fiancée, Beth. These days, Lieutenant Rawlings shared the place with Commander Mackenzie, alone—which was reason enough for commiseration as far as Faith was concerned.
From the discussion she’d eavesdropped on earlier, Zane had tracked Rawlings to his bedroom. With luck, he’d stayed put after his commanding officer had left. Waving away a swarm of mosquitoes, she hurried up the three plank steps and knocked hard on the rough-hewn door. Silence greeted her from within the cabin. She knocked again, hard enough to bruise her knuckles. More silence. If he was in there, he had no intention of admitting it. Sympathy stirred; she understood the need for solitude. Indeed, she’d often felt it herself while growing up. Sometimes you just needed to get away, to escape the fear in loved ones’ eyes—or in his case, his teammates’ eyes.
There was nothing worse than knowing someone was worrying themselves sick over you. It hadn’t mattered how often she’d reminded herself that the situation wasn’t her fault, or how many times her therapists had told her that she wasn’t responsible for her parents’ fear—she’d still felt accountable for the deep crevices that constant worry had etched into their faces.
The guilt had been bad enough prior to the first transplant, but when the initial heart had failed and she’d ended up back on the transplant list with diminishing chances of receiving a second heart in time . . . She flinched, shying away from the memories. The stress had killed what love remained between her parents—miring them in cold silence or endless arguments. The only reason they’d stayed together had been because of her, because of the care she’d required.
After the second heart transplant had returned her to health, she’d hoped they’d seek happiness for themselves, even if it meant being apart from one another. But by then they’d become so fixated on her health they’d let it define them and had hung her heart condition around her neck like some macabre charm meant to ward off death.
She’d chosen a university clear across the country, and remained there after graduation, to escape their obsession over her mortality. After the lab explosion, when the medical examiner had released the news of her death, she’d thought long and hard about whether to contact them with a “Surprise! Look who’s on their fourth life!” But caution had stayed her hand. What if someone was monitoring her parents’ calls? What if her stalkers tracked her location through the phone records?
In the end it hadn’t been fear of discovery that had stilled her fingers on the untraceable cell phone she’d picked up at the mini-mart around the corner. It had been imagining their reaction to finding out she was alive. That familiar guilt had settled thick as quicksand inside her. A reaction made stronger by the knowledge that her parents wouldn’t even be mad that she’d kept them in the dark so long. They’d be so overjoyed to find out she was alive they wouldn’t have room for anger. But eventually their relief would shift to fear, and they’d urge her to return to Augusta, Maine, and when she refused, they’d insist on moving out to the West Coast and that whole passive-aggressive obsession would start again.