The Red Ledger Part 1

Chapter 7

TRISTAN

Mateus arrives on Karina's heels and places two glasses of wine beside our plates. "Saúde," he says with a wink.

Isabel smirks as he leaves. "Why do I get the feeling he wants us to get along?"

"He likes to meddle. I had no idea how much until I brought you here."

"How long have you been friends?"

I tense at the warmth she attaches to the term. It's both foreign and uncomfortable, much like the way she makes me feel.

"Almost as long as I can remember," I finally say between bites.

Isabel is quiet for a moment. "So not long, then."

"We met a few years ago. Right after I came to Brazil. Things were different then."

"How?"

I internally berate myself for opening the door to her question. But the more we share with one another, the less I seem to worry about the vulnerability the truth creates. Our days may be numbered. If she doesn't die by my hand, Jay's people will get to her. What does it matter what she knows?

"I was figuring out my life here. I accepted his friendship before I realized how inconvenient they could be."

"Friends?"

"Friends. Lovers. Essentially anyone who knows my name becomes a liability."

I laugh to myself at the sudden irony that, until a few hours ago, I didn't even know my own surname. I was reborn as Tristan Red the second my boots hit the ground in Rio for the first time. I have official documents with a dozen aliases, but Red is how most of the people in my world know me.

My given name is like my past. Good to know but largely irrelevant. I can never be Tristan Stone again. Isabel has to finally believe this now.

"I go by Tristan Red, by the way. I'd appreciate it if you didn't introduce me to random strangers though."

Her cheeks redden. "Sorry."

I point to her full plate. "I thought you were starving."

She exhales a deep breath and nods. We spend the next few minutes devouring Karina's masterpiece. I shouldn't feel so unguarded, but between the heavy meal and the atmosphere, I'm feeling at ease. Relaxed, even.

As we finish, she gestures to the couch and offers a hopeful smile. "Do you want to sit?"

"Sure."

Together, we move to the other side of the den where Mateus scolded me only a night ago. I refill our wineglasses, unable to stop from dwelling on the photos he showed me.

Meanwhile Isabel sits in an adjacent chair. I cross the room as she tucks her legs under her. In her flowy white dress, she's nothing short of a miracle. An impossibility.

She sips her wine and holds it on her tongue before swallowing.

"Do you like it?"

She smiles. "I do."

I sit on the couch and try not to feel like the silence is a physical thing, creeping in, beckoning me to break it and ask Isabel all the questions I should be.

"So," she says, "what should we talk about?"

Her voice is tentative, and I don't blame her after this afternoon. I should rip the Band-Aid off. Get this over with so we can both move on.