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Her mother sighed.
A sense of betrayal made Cheryse’s hackles rise. She gripped the wheel more tightly as she drove toward the caves. “I told you about our fight at a weak moment, Mother. You don’t get to use it against me … especially not on a day like today.” All the therapy she’d been through gave her the push to say, “Goodbye, Mom.”
“Cheryse, if you’d just talk for a second—”
“Sorry, Mom. I have to go.” Cheryse ended the call.
Chapter 3
When Hunter left the cemetery, he just kept walking. And walking. And walking. Being a SEAL meant he could deprive himself of bodily comforts for an outrageously long time. He would have walked all the way up to the cave with the petroglyphs despite the fact that his knee was killing him. Luckily, some guy pulled over and asked if he wanted a ride, and he took the offer. He didn’t talk to the driver except to say thank you when he was dropped off.
Hunter wandered past the petroglyphs, and his hand brushed across the wall in the cave where he and his brother had carved out the petroglyphs only last year. They had removed the petroglyphs to prevent Mr. Banks from getting his hands on them. The whole thing had gone to crap, though, and Mr. Banks had gotten them anyway. Surprisingly, though, Mr. Banks had sent the petroglyphs back, wrapped carefully in boxes addressed to Trey. Too bad Mr. Banks had blown any goodwill with the family after he’d put a gun to Trent’s back. Not to mention the firefighter blowout at Portsmouth Island.
Mr. Banks. Pfft. The familiar anger rose inside of Hunter just thinking about that man.
Hunter paused, his thoughts quickly turning back to Trent and how he’d been so obsessed with finding out where the key would lead them. There had been no luck with it, but in typical Trent fashion, he’d been driving everyone crazy about it before …
Hunter’s insides went hollow. He ran a hand through his hair, stopping and grabbing the ends of it and pulling hard. It couldn’t be! He yanked it again, wincing at the pain. Trent couldn’t be gone.
Hunter traced the edges where the stone had been broken, where it had once been smooth and would never be smooth again.
Broken. That’s how Hunter felt.
He meandered out of the caves and walked down to the lighthouse next to the beach. The last time he’d been here, he had been with Trent. Reflexively, he laughed as he thought about how he and Trent had stupidly fought about his breakup with Amy. Gah! He sucked in air, and his mind raced with so many memories of Trent as if on hyper speed. His vision blurred, and he cursed. “You … How dare you leave me?”
He threw open the door of the lighthouse and took the stairs two at a time until he got to the top. The whole thing was dilapidated and falling apart. It was easy to see that teenagers had ransacked the place since they’d fixed it up for Marshall’s wedding. But Hunter couldn’t care less. He couldn’t care about anything right now.
He moved to the window and looked out, thinking about how many times he’d come up here with Trent. Tears blurred his vision even more, and he gingerly touched the back of his neck where the bullet had somehow gone in and out without permanently injuring him.
“It should have been me.” He cursed again. “I was supposed to die first.”
The family had waited to have the funeral until Hunter was well enough to come home. It had been three weeks ago that Hunter had woken up in that dang hospital.
How he longed to be a POW from al-Qaeda. How he longed to be trapped in some Taliban hellhole in the middle of the desert. At least that would make sense, because Trent would still be alive. But to be left in a world without Trent in it … that did not make sense.
He sucked in a long breath and tried to get his bearings. Sure, he was a SEAL and SEALs did dangerous things. SEALs put their lives on the line for freedom. Every. Dang. Day. That’s what they did. That was what he’d signed up for. He’d known that. They’d both known it. Their own father had been killed in the line of duty. Death wasn’t new to him.
In excruciating detail, he remembered his brother’s face as he’d run toward him during the last op. Hunter hunched over and gasped for air.
Trent was dead.
He crumpled to his knees as another round of tears came. Dang it. He hated crying like a stupid little girl. He banged his fist against the floor. “No. No. No. You can’t be gone, you jerk! I hate you!”
It was so hard to breathe. He put his hand to his chest and thought about what the shrink had asked him during their last visit. Was he emotionally okay to go back out on duty?
Hunter pulled out the gun he kept in the inside holster of his pants. He sat back and stared at it. It was a Sig Sauer P365 9mm. He turned the safety off and gripped it, pointing it toward the wall. Tears fell down his cheeks. How on earth was he supposed to live in a world without Trent?
He turned the gun toward himself, sticking the barrel in his mouth.
He would end it. He would just join Trent.
His mother’s face flashed into his mind. Then his father’s. Then Trent’s.
His hand shook and he yanked the gun out, falling to the floor with another sob. Dang it! He couldn’t do it. He cried, feeling weak and fragile and all things he hated. He stayed that way for a long time, with his eyes closed and his body curled into a fetal position.
His mind was stuck on an image of Trent coming toward him during that battle, his face as happy as it always had been when they saw each other. How many times had Trent’s undeterred obstinacy ticked him off? When they’d been kids, Trent always insisted they do the thing that Hunter knew in his gut would get them in trouble. So many times, Trent went down “that road” and Hunter had to follow him.
But Trent had saved him by dragging him to cover after he’d been shot.
