Faithless: A Salvation Society Novel Read online

  “Thanks, sis,” I say, reaching over and chuffing her on the chin. She may be six inches shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than me, but she’d always be my big sister. There was just something about her presence that always comforted me.

  “Now,” she says, turning back to the paperwork in front of us. “Let’s get this shit sorted so your mother-in-law can stop calling every five seconds.”

  I bark out a laugh. “You’re dreaming if you think that’s going to stop it. Debbie Mitchell just lost the most important person in her life. She’s a bigger mess over this than I am.”

  Aara gives me a pinched look. “What about her other daughter? How does she feel about her mother acting like she’s lost the only thing that matters?”

  My brow furrows, my thoughts drifting to my wife’s estranged sister for the first time in… well, years. “Kate?”

  Aara nods. “She lost someone, too, you know. You’d think her mom would be there for her instead of pestering you about stupid shit like what fucking Bible verse to print on the program.”

  I shake my head. “No, they aren’t close. In fact, I doubt that Kate even knows Felicity is dead.”

  “What?” Aara shrieks, which causes me to throw my hands up in frustration.

  “Jesus, Aara. Can you keep it down? You know how hard it was to get them to sleep!”

  She gives me an apologetic look, but it doesn’t hide the displeasure in her voice as she hisses at me. “Are you kidding me, Shane? The woman doesn’t know her only sister is gone?”

  I shrug. “You know they hated each other. You couldn’t so much as say her name in Felicity’s presence without her shooting daggers at you. Kate took off years ago, and as far as I know, neither Felicity nor her parents have heard from her since. I doubt she’d even care.”

  Aara gives me a disapproving look, her head shaking in her disappointment. “That’s fucked up, Shane. You can’t keep something like this from her. She deserves to know. To make the decision for herself if she wants to attend the funeral.”

  Now it’s my turn to get angry. “That isn’t happening. That woman will not show up and ruin everyone’s final memory of my wife.”

  “You don’t even—”

  “No, Aara,” I gruff, my tone absolute. “I won’t bend on this. Felicity made some mistakes, and I might be furious as fuck with her. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to hurt her like that. She wouldn’t want Kate there, so she won’t be there,” I say, adding emphasis on each of the last three words. “Is that clear?”

  Aara’s eyes narrow as she glares at me, and I can tell it’s taking everything in her not to push the issue further. But this is one argument she won’t win.

  Felicity and her sister have a long and ugly history. Years and years of rivalry and resentment, of competition and contention.

  Felicity may have been a lot of things.

  A liar.

  A coward.

  A cheater.

  But she was still my wife. Still the mother of my children.

  And I refuse to let some person I’ve never even met come in and steal the show, taking the focus away from Lissy even in death.

  No, Kate Mitchell will not be allowed anywhere near my wife’s funeral.

  It’s the least I can do for the woman who had once been the love of my life.

  Chapter Two

  Kate

  When I was a kid, there was a trick I learned to help calm my nerves whenever I was feeling anxious. Any time I started feeling overwhelmed, I’d start with my pinkie and thumb, tapping them together quickly before moving onto my ring finger. I’d cycle through all of my fingers, tapping each one against my thumb and then going backward, speeding up each time I started over again. I found that if I focused my mind on the movement of my fingers, trying to ensure the pattern remained consistent and perfect, it made it easier to forget about whatever it was that was plaguing me at the time.

  Sitting here in my editor’s office, however, has shown me the flaw in my logic. Because who the hell can concentrate on their fingers when their entire career hangs in the balance of roughly two thousand words?

  Ditching my old tactic, I instead bring my thumb to my lips, my teeth tearing into my nail like a woman starved. My heart hammers in my chest, and I can feel the rivulets of sweat as they begin to form beneath my shirt.

  Great. Now not only do I need a new manicure, I’m going to smell like a pair of gym socks for the rest of the day.

  I watch Isabelle’s eyes as she reads over my latest piece, her stern face not giving me the slightest indication of whether she likes what she sees or thinks it’s complete garbage.

  I knew this piece would be a risk before I even began writing it. As one of Chicago’s largest newspapers, the Windy Weekly—or the Double Dub, as we like to call it—generally focuses on puff pieces and the latest political scandal. A two thousand word article on the rise of child sex trafficking in our city wasn’t something that Izzy would normally even consider running. Her ideology that was that there was enough bad shit going on in the world, plenty of other papers to dwell on the awful, and we at the Double Dub needed to be the bright spot in our readers’ otherwise bleak lives.

  But I’m tired of that mentality. Sure, for years I’d been content to write about sex at City Hall and which supermodel the latest quarterback of the Bears had been spotted with.

  But I’m ready to move on with my career. I want to write about things I actually care about. Things that I think could help make a difference in the world.

  Starting right now.

  Izzy’s eyes begin to slow their track across the page, and I know she’s finally reaching the end of my document. My stomach churns, and I suck in a breath as she leans forward and sets my pages on her desk.

  After removing her glasses, Izzy brings a hand to her face, her thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose as she squeezes her eyes shut tight. And it’s then I know I’ve made a colossal mistake.

  “Izzy, I’m—”

  She holds up a hand, cutting off my words before I can even really get started with my apology. My mouth snaps shut, and I wait for a moment while she sits in silence.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she drops her hand, lifting her gaze to meet mine, her eyes shining with tears.

  All the air rushes out of my lungs. Because this can only mean one of two things. Either it was so bad that she’s sad she now has to fire me. Or…

  “That was beautiful, Kate,” she says, her voice cracking on the first word. “Horrifying,” she adds quickly, “but beautiful.”

  I breathe out a sigh of relief. It had been hard as hell to condense everything I wanted to say on the subject into a two thousand word article. I’d wanted to highlight the horror of the industry itself, while still trying to provide hope to the people of Chicago that with the help of all the everyday men and women in our great city, we could combat this plague currently sweeping our nation. I’d interviewed several people with the local awareness and prevention organizations, and when I’d finally put those last few finishing touches on my piece, I’d been proud of the work I’d accomplished.

  It’s smart. It’s emotional. But most importantly, it brings light to a very important subject.

  And I am over the moon that my boss feels the same way.

  “Thank you, Iz,” I say, finally releasing my thumbnail from my teeth and placing my hands in my lap.

  “Seriously, Kate. This is the best work you’ve done in… maybe ever. And you know how I feel about your writing.”

  I’d been fresh out of college, a wet behind the ears journalism major when I’d sent in an article to the Double Dub on a whim. I never in a million years expected that anybody would actually read it. Or that a week later, I’d be sitting in Isabelle Walker’s—the editor-in-chief—office being offered the opportunity of a lifetime.

  I’d been a regular on the payroll ever since, and it’s rare that a week goes by without one of my stories being published. Everybod
y in the office knows that I’m the apple of the boss’s eye, and instead of resenting me for it, they seem to exalt me just as much.

  At only twenty-eight years old, I’m already the most published journalist in Windy Weekly history. And I’ve taken more aspiring writers under my wing than I could even begin to count.

  I’m living my dream. Everything I ever wanted growing up has either already happened or is well on its way to becoming a reality.

  Except for one.

  Izzy’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, preventing me from slipping too far into my past and the lack of one very important thing in my life. I shake off my melancholy feelings, shifting my attention back to her.

  “We’re going to run it on Sunday. Front-page.”

  My jaw falls slack. “F-front-page?”

  In the five years I’ve worked here, I’ve had hundreds of articles published. But never, ever have I been on the front-page of a Sunday issue.

  Izzy nods. “Yes. This piece is incredible, Kate. It needs to be read. More people need to know what’s going on right here beneath our feet.”

  I’m ecstatic for myself, for what this means for my career, but even more so, I’m thrilled at the awareness this is going to bring.

  I need to go call my sources!

  I start making a mental list of all the people I’d interviewed, all the people who helped me make the article what it is and deserve to be recognized for what they do far more than I. They’ll be so happy to hear that all their hard work and dedication is starting to pay off.

  Izzy finishes rattling off some details, a few minor tweaks she’d like me to make before we go to print, but it’s all trivial stuff. By the time I leave her office, I’m practically floating on air.

  Apparently the good news has already started circling the office while I’d been in with Izzy, because my co-workers all congratulate me as I pass, their warm smiles and positive words only bolstering the high I’m currently feeling.

  And as soon as I get to my office, as soon as I plop down on my chair and grab my phone to begin telling everyone the good news, it’s as if a pin pokes straight into my happiness, deflating it even faster than it had expanded.

  Because the people I wish I could call first, the people who should be at the very top of my list whenever good things happen, are the last people who want to hear from me.

  I scroll through my contacts, hovering over the listing for Home.

  I really need to change that, I think, my finger moving over to the edit button so I can do exactly that.

  But I don’t press it. Because no matter how long it’s been, no matter how many years pass without a single word from my parents, I can’t help but hold out hope.

  Their house had once been my home. I’d once felt welcome there.

  And then everything had changed.

  I haven’t spoken to my parents or my sister since the day I left for college. Ten years have passed since I felt my mother’s embrace or heard my father’s encouraging words.

  But as much as their absence stings, it’s my sister’s that hurts the most.

  Felicity and I had been inseparable as kids. At only fourteen months apart, we’d grown up more as twins than sisters. We shared everything with one another—a room, clothes, friends, secrets…she was the best friend I could’ve ever asked for and I loved her more than life itself.

  Then high school happened, and our entire relationship went up in flames.

  I swallow down the burn in my chest that occurs whenever I think of the day Felicity went from being my closest confidant to my greatest persecutor. Because that’s exactly how quickly it happened.

  One day we were strolling through the halls of Ocean Lakes High arm in arm, smiling and laughing at our inside jokes and gossiping about cute boys, and the next, she wanted nothing to do with me.

  She’d spent the next two years barely tolerating my presence, dashing from the kitchen table as soon as she finished eating as if being near me for even one more second would cause her to be physically ill. And the more time that went by, the worse and worse it got.

  The day my acceptance letter to Northwestern had finally arrived, a school we’d both applied to but only one of us had gotten into, Felicity had looked me dead in the eye and told me she hated me.

  “Don’t ever speak to me again.”

  I can still feel the bitterness of those words, the way they hit me just as hard as if she’d actually slapped me across the face.

  The already strained dynamic in our family had shifted that day, and my parents had sided with my sister. In their eyes, I wasn’t simply succeeding and getting one step closer to my dreams.

  I was actively trying to take them away from Felicity.

  It didn’t matter that the last thing I wanted to do was hurt my best friend. Hell, I would’ve given up everything if it meant I could have my family back. I’d said as much the night before I left for college.

  But the damage had already been done. Nothing I said, nothing I did would ever fix the catastrophe that was our relationship.

  So instead, I’d left, metaphorical tail between my legs, and tried to start a new life.

  Most days, I don’t miss my life back in Virginia Beach. Most days, the days I sit and look at all my accomplishments, at the friends I’ve made and people whose respect I’ve earned, I don’t even think about the family I left behind.

  But then there are days like today. The days where I wish for nothing more than to call my sister, to hear her tell me how proud she is of me, to hear my parents tell me they love me.

  And if wishes were fishes… mine would be the one that escaped through a hole in the net.

  I toss my phone on my desk, deciding to wait until tomorrow to make the calls to my contacts. Right now, all I need is to get the hell out of this office and do something to take my mind off my family. Anything that will help me kick this grim mood that’s fallen over me when I should be celebrating.

  Turning to my computer, I make quick work of triple saving my progress on my next piece before powering down for the day. It’s a few hours before my normal quitting time, but something tells me Izzy won’t mind me cutting out a bit early today.

  I’m just about to grab my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk when my office phone beeps. Dawn, the receptionist and all-around badass here at the Double Dub, comes over the line.

  “Kate?”

  I slump back in my chair. “Yeah?” I ask tentatively, knowing that she never interrupts me during work hours unless it’s something important.

  “You’ve got a call from an Aarabelle Gilcher on line two.”

  My brow furrows, and I wrack my brain, trying to place the name. But I come up empty. Surely I’d remember an unusual name such as Aarabelle?

  “Can you take a message, D? I was just on my way out.”

  “Tried that,” she says, which I’d pretty much already figured. Like I said, Dawn is great about not putting anybody through if she can help it. “She’s insistent on speaking with you. She says it’s urgent.”

  As a reporter, I know just about every tactic in the book to get past a stubborn receptionist. I knew every phrase and each ploy that would help me get from the front desk to the person I wanted to speak to, even if ninety-nine percent of the time I was full of shit.

  And I didn’t appreciate anybody trying to pull the same thing on me and my co-workers. I have no clue who this Aarabelle Gilcher was, but there is no way in hell what she has to say to me can’t wait until tomorrow.

  Still, it’s not Dawn’s responsibility to deal with assholes. And Aarabelle is probably just another journalism major who wants me to provide feedback on her final paper. Shouldn’t take long to get rid of her.

  “Thanks, D. You can put her through,” I say, trying to keep the annoyance from my tone so Dawn doesn’t think it’s directed at her.

  “You got her,” Dawn responds, the phone beeping once more before muffled static fills the room.

  I briefly debate disconne
cting, telling Dawn the connection failed and must’ve dropped the call during the transfer, and hightailing it out of the office before the woman could call back.

  But I know I’d only be delaying the inevitable. Besides, Dawn has better things to do than put up with phone calls from this chick all afternoon.

  Better to put her in her place now, so that she knows just how unacceptable this is before she tries it with someone who might not be so forgiving. The journalism industry might be vast, but people talk. And a black mark on your record before you even really got a chance to begin could ruin a career.

  “Kate Mitchell,” I clip as I snatch the phone from its cradle.

  “Oh, um—hi,” the woman on the other end of the line stammers. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to answer so quickly.”

  “How can I help you, Ms. Gilcher?” I ask, keeping my tone terse and my words short.

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure how to tell you this, but—”

  “I’m a very busy woman, Ms. Gilcher. Can you please cut the pleasantries and get to the point?”

  I know I’m being rude, but the sooner she tells me what she wants from me, the sooner I can turn her down and get on with my day.

  I can practically feel the woman stiffen through the phone, her breath catching momentarily before she clears her throat. I can tell she’s not used to being spoken to like this, but if this little girl is going to make it in the big leagues, she’s got to get herself a tough skin real quick.

  “It’s about your sister,” she says, all uncertainty now gone from her voice, replaced instead by irritation.

  The words are the last thing I expected to hear, and I’m momentarily caught off guard. “M-my sister? What do you know about my sister?”

  What the hell is her game? There’s using information to get what you want… and then there’s just crossing a line. Something tells me this woman is about to catapult right past that line.

  “Your sister is Felicity Dempsey, correct?”

  I still haven’t gotten used to my sister’s married name, even though it’s been ten years since the wedding I wasn’t invited to. Probably because I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard it spoken aloud.