Chapter 7 - The Return of the Ghost
The morning news was a riot of headlines.
"INDUSTRIAL FIRE GUTS WEBB HOLDINGS,"
one shouted.
"TWENTY-FOUR WOMEN RESCUED FROM ILLEGAL WORK-HOUSE,"
another screamed.
Tristan sat by his window,
a rare cup of real coffee in his hand,
provided by Knox.
He watched the street below,
noting the black SUV parked two blocks away.
His men.
He was no longer just a man in a room;
he was a commander in the field.
A knock came on his door,
not at the usual time.
It was frantic,
loud.
He wheeled himself over and opened it.
Elara stood there,
her face flushed,
tears streaming down her cheeks,
holding a crumpled piece of paper.
"She's home,"
Elara sobbed,
not even waiting for him to speak.
"Maya... my sister. She just walked through the door. She said... she said men in masks broke her out. They gave her an envelope with ten thousand dollars."
Tristan felt a flicker of satisfaction,
but he kept his face neutral,
the mask of the crippled stranger firmly in place.
"That's... that's incredible,
Elara,"
he said,
his voice warm.
"I told you things would change."
She looked at him then,
really looked at him,
her eyes searching his.
"How did you know?"
she asked,
her voice dropping to a whisper.
"You said it last night. You said the wind was changing."
Tristan felt a moment of danger.
He had been too bold.
"I just have a feeling about these things,"
he said,
giving her a small,
tired smile.
"When you've lost everything,
you start to see the patterns."
She stepped into his room for the first time,
her eyes taking in the sparse,
poorly lit space.
She saw the empty porridge bowls,
the old books,
the wheelchair.
She didn't see the gun hidden in the shadow,
or the encrypted phone.
She walked over to him and did something that caught him completely off guard.
She hugged him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck,
her head resting on his shoulder,
right where the bullet had gone through.
She smelled of rain and cheap soap and hope.
Tristan froze.
He hadn't been touched like this in... ever.
Celeste’s touches were always calculated,
part of a performance.
This was raw.
This was real.
"Thank you,"
she whispered.
"I don't know why,
but I feel like I have to thank you."
Tristan’s hands hovered in the air,
wanting to hold her,
wanting to pull her close,
but afraid of what he was.
Finally,
he settled for a light pat on her back.
"I didn't do anything,
Elara. It was just your time for a miracle."
She pulled back,
wiping her eyes,
a radiant smile on her face.
"I'm going to make the best dinner tonight. For everyone. For you,
for Maya,
for my mom. You have to come to our place."
Tristan looked at his wheelchair.
"I... I don't go out much."
"I'll help you,"
she insisted.
"It's just two doors down. Please."
Tristan looked into her eyes and saw a world he had forgotten existed.
A world of dinners and laughter and family.
"Okay,"
he said softly.
"I'll be there."
As she left,
skipping down the hall,
Tristan felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.
He was getting too close.
He was Tristan Wolfe,
the man who had to die so that he could kill.
But as he looked at the empty space where she had stood,
he knew he couldn't go back to being just a ghost.
May you like
He was becoming a man again.
And a man had something to lose.
