He had had his mortal shot. He had chosen his path.
But oh, God, if he’d known, he would have fought the tide in himself, derailed his actions, shifted the consequences away from where they had taken so many lives—including his own.
Trapped in the darkness, tortured with his fellow sinners, desolate and despairing to a degree that even the worst nightmare couldn’t approach, a great uncorking occurred, his emotions bubbling up and over—
“Matthias?”
He woke up with a shout, his head flipping off the pillow, his arms punching forward as if he had something to fight.
But there was nothing in front of him. No one tangled with him.
And there was light.
In the dim glow from the bathroom, Mels…his beautiful Mels…was standing at the foot of the bed in his hotel room. She had her coat on and her purse hanging off her shoulder, as if she had just arrived from work…and her expression was nothing remote, everything involved.
Bad dream, he told himself. It had been a bad…
The fuck it had been a dream—
“Matthias,” she said gently, “are you all right?”
At first he couldn’t fathom why she was asking him that. Yeah, he’d had a nightmare, but—
Ah, shit, was he crying?
Wiping his cheeks with flat palms, he scrambled off the bed and excused himself for the bathroom. Crying in front of her? Yeah, fuck that for a laugh.
“Just gimme a minute.”
Shutting himself in, he braced his hands on the counter and hung his head over the sink. As he cranked the faucet to make it seem like he was doing something other than trying not to be a pussy, he sagged into the modest strength of his arms, attempting to shed the conviction that where he’d been in that dream was in fact not a place he’d actually been to.
Wasn’t working.
The Hell he’d just seen was a memory, not a nightmare. And wasn’t that enough to get his hands shaking.
Splashing water on his face didn’t do shit, and neither did a hard scrub with a white towel. After he used the loo, he went back out—had to. Any longer in the bathroom and Mels was liable to think he’d hanged himself by the belt or something.
As he emerged, he found her sitting in the chair by the windows, her hands in her lap, her head tilted down like she was assessing whether or not she needed to trim her nails.
Aware that he was just in the T-shirt and boxers that he’d bought in the lobby gift shop—and that his ruined legs were on display from midthigh down—he got back under the covers.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” he said softly as he put the Ray-Bans on.
“Jim Heron’s so-called brother brought me over in a cab and let me in.”
Damn that man, Matthias thought.
Mels shrugged, like she knew he was pissed. “And you know what?”
“What.”
“I don’t buy the twin crap for a second. I think that is Jim Heron, and that he faked his death for some reason—and I think you know why.”
In the pause that followed, it was obvious she expected him to fill in the details, but his brain had pretty much shut down. He didn’t want her around the guy, much less alone with him—because he couldn’t trust anyone. Especially not with her.
“You were meeting with him when I came out and found you at that garage. Weren’t you.”
“It’s complicated. And as for his name, that’s not my story to tell.”
“He told me you two had served in the military together.” She waited again for him to fill in some information. “It’s clear he feels responsible for you.”
As the past churned behind the shroud of his amnesia, at least he didn’t have to lie to her. “So much of it is…a haze. Nothing more.” He traced her with his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”
There was a long pause. “You want to tell me what you were so upset about just now.”
“I don’t think you’d believe me.”
She laughed a little. “After the last day and a half, I’m more likely to, trust me.”
“Why?”
“Everything feels…wrong. I mean, it’s just been a weird ride, you know.” She stared at him as if she were taking his temperature, his blood pressure, and his heart rate from across the room. “Talk to me, Matthias. You gotta open up—and if you can’t give me your memories, just tell me where you are.”
Closing his eyes, he felt as though he were boxed in, unable to answer, but incapable of ignoring her.
Finally, he murmured, “What would you say if I told you I believe in Hell. And not from a religious standpoint, but because I’d been there—and I think I was sent back here to do something.” Man, she was quiet. “I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find it out. Maybe it’s a second chance—maybe it’s…something else.”
Cue even more of the silence.
Lifting his lids, he measured her. “I know it sounds crazy, but…I woke up naked on Jim’s grave, and I think I was put there. Everything before that is a blank, and yet I have this sense that I’m suppose to do something, that there is purpose in my being here…and that I don’t have forever.”
Mels pushed her hair back and cleared her throat. “The blank part is because you’ve got amnesia.”
“Or maybe it’s because I’m not supposed to remember. I swear…I’ve been to Hell. I was trapped there with these countless other people in a prison where all there was…was suffering. Forever.” He rubbed his sternum, and then left his hand where it was, over his heart. “I know it here, in my chest. Just like I know that you and I were supposed to meet the night we did, and we’re supposed to be together right now. And yeah, that’s nuts, but if the afterlife doesn’t exist, why do so many people believe it does?”
Mels shook her head. “I don’t know the answer to that.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
The longer she didn’t reply, the more he knew he’d pushed her too far…except then she smiled in a sad way.
“My father believed in Heaven and Hell. And not just in theory. Kind of ironic, given how he ran his life. Then again, perhaps he felt like he was personally in charge of the ‘wrath of God’ side of things on earth.”
“He was a churchgoer?”
“Every Sunday. Like clockwork. Maybe he thought it would get him off the hook for some of his more…shall we say, physical corrections of behavior.”
“Nothing does that.”
As her eyes shot to his, he wanted to curse. Way to go—making it sound like her pops was in the basement. “What I mean is—”
“He did a lot of good things, too. Saved women and children from horrible situations, protected the innocent, made sure people got what they deserved.”
“That should work in his favor, then.” Lame. So lame. “Look, I don’t mean to suggest—”
“It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’m saying.” He put his palms up. “Don’t listen to me. It was just…a shitty nightmare—yeah, nothing but that, and I don’t know…a goddamn thing.”
Liar. Such a liar. But the subtle signs of relief in her, from the easing of her shoulders to the way she released her breath low and slow, told him it was worth it. One hundred percent.
“His name was Thomas,” she said abruptly. “Everyone called him ‘Carmichael,’ though. He meant the world to me—he was everything I looked up to. Everything I want to be—God, I don’t know why I’m talking about this.”
“It’s okay,” he said softly—because he was hoping that if he didn’t make a lot of noise, she would keep talking.
No such luck. She stopped, and he was surprised by how much he wanted her to go on. Hell, he’d take any kind of conversation: her grocery list, her thoughts on air pollution, whether she was a Democrat or a Republican…the theory of relativity.
But man, details of her past? Her parents? That was true gold.
“What about your mom?”