Liar (9 page)

Actually, that didn't sound so bad. If he were institutionalized, then he'd never have to face Ella again—

“Unplug that phone or I'm gonna break down this door and unplug it for you!” Mike shouted.

Of course. Sam shook his head. He didn't have to torture himself or his suite mates. He could just unplug the phone. Why hadn't
he
thought of that?
Maybe because I'm losing my mind.
With a grunt he forced himself up and ripped the cord out of the wall in midring.

“Sorry,” he called.

Mike didn't answer. He simply stomped away.

Add one more person to the list of people who hate Sam Moon.
A bitter smile crossed his face as he sank down onto his unmade bed and ran a clammy hand through his hair. It was pitiful. Aside from a psychotic, thirty-year-old nymphomaniac who was destroying his life, who actually
liked
him? Not Mike, obviously—although he'd probably get over it. Sam's lab partners were getting fed up with him, too. He'd been blowing them off since Christmas. And his girlfriend? They barely even spoke. If he didn't officially end things with Heather soon, it would probably be only a matter of time before
she
dumped
him.

That left Gaia.

Right. After tonight Gaia probably wouldn't want to have anything to do with him, either. Of course she wouldn't. He'd left her in the park—where she'd been
attacked—then dumped her unceremoniously on her front stoop after she'd keeled over. A hell of a dinner, wasn't it?

His eyes flashed to the phone. Maybe he should just call her. Maybe
she
had been the one who was calling and calling all night. It was possible, wasn't it? Yeah, right. It was also possible that the queen of England was calling, too. He knew damn well who it had been. The psycho. The foster mom. He couldn't bring himself even to
think
her name. And if he called that house, chances were very good that
she
would answer the phone.

So. Once again he found himself back where he started. Ground zero. Having confessed nothing. In the same state of panic. At this rate he was going to have an ulcer before he turned twenty-one. For all he knew, Ella had already told Gaia everything. Maybe she'd found Heather and told
her,
too. Anything could happen.

But that wasn't what terrified him the most.

No … what terrified him the most was that a part of him—a subconscious part, buried deep within the darkest reaches of his psyhe—might want that to happen. A part of him might secretly long for Ella to tell Gaia the truth. Because in a way, that would let Sam off the hook. And wasn't that what every coward wanted? Why else had he rushed Gaia back to her house tonight before
she even woke up? He didn't want to deal with the truth. The truth was far too ugly.

And tomorrow he'd start over. Once again he'd go back to Gaia's house and keep a vigil outside her door until he caught her alone. Because there was always a chance that he'd miss her, or almost be hit by a car, or Gaia would be attacked … or some extraordinary set of circumstances would let him off the hook one more time.

After all, that subconscious strategy had worked pretty well so far.

ELLA'S CALL DIDN'T COME UNTIL almost five o'clock in the morning. Not that this was any surprise. Nothing about the evening had been a surprise. In a way, that was what had been most disheartening about the entire exercise: its utter predictability.

“Yes?” Loki answered languidly, staring out his window at the twinkling lights of Manhattan. Soon the sun would be coming up. He sighed. Another sleepless night. He hated trying to get to sleep at dawn. It was almost always impossible.

“Nothing to report,” Ella stated. “I followed her to the park. She returned home afterward. She's in bed now—”

“You're lying,” Loki interrupted. His tone betrayed his exhaustion, but little else. The simple fact of the matter was that he simply didn't care enough to feel
anything
toward this woman anymore.

“No, I'm not,” Ella retorted. She actually had the audacity to sound indignant. He had to hand it to her: Ella was always sure of herself, of her own clear conscience. Even in the face of what she had done. Even in the face of the test she had so miserably failed. “I just went up to her room. She's there. In bed.”

Loki snorted. “Interesting. So you're calling me from the house?”

“Of
course
not. I'm on the corner of Perry and Bleecker—”

“That's enough.” Loki groaned. “So your report is that you followed Gaia to the park, then home. You don't want to add anything?”

After a brief pause Ella cleared her throat. “I … I went out for a while afterward. For a few drinks. That's why I'm calling so late.”

“With George?” Loki asked, even though he knew full well that she hadn't seen her husband since six o'clock.

“Yes,” Ella answered.
“You're
the one who's always telling me to spend more time with him. I figured a night on the town would do us some good.”

Loki laughed. He almost felt like applauding.
Bravo!
He was beginning to remember why he'd hired Ella in the first place. In addition to
being supremely confident, she was also an excellent actress. The two qualities went hand in hand. Outwardly, she still had the makings of a good agent. Too bad she'd lost control.

“What's so funny?” Ella demanded. She sounded like a five-year-old.

Loki sighed again. It was time to end this game. “What's funny is that you abandoned Gaia somewhere on Broadway and spent the rest of the night hounding the occupant of an NYU dormitory. Are you having an affair with a college professor?”

For maybe the first time since he'd known her, Ella didn't have an answer. She was speechless. Just as he'd known she would be.

“You don't have to answer that question,” Loki continued. “I respect your privacy. But it might interest you to know that Gaia was attacked in the park tonight.”

“What?” Ella gasped, unable to mask the terror in her voice.

You're right to be afraid,
Loki thought.
I gave you one final opportunity to redeem yourself, and you let me down. There are no second chances.

“Bu-But she's fine,” Ella stammered. “I just saw her—”

“I know she's fine,” Loki interrupted, smiling. “I know everything, remember?”

Again he heard nothing. Not even a breath. But that silence betrayed a terror far greater than any words could express.

“Ella, at its most basic level your assignment consists of only two tasks. The first is to monitor Gaia. The second is to keep her out of danger. You have repeatedly failed at both. Worse, you have repeatedly lied to me. This is no good.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. Her voice rose. “I won't let it happen again. I swear to you. It's just the pressure. Of living with George. Of everything.” The words tumbled from her mouth in a panicked rush. “And I'm not having an affair. I just—”

“I don't care, Ella,” he stated, cutting her off.

“But—”

He clicked off the phone. Once again his gaze swept over the Manhattan skyline. The situation was unfortunate. He'd invested so much energy in Ella, so much trust. And she
had
served him extremely well—up to a point. But he couldn't afford the luxury of second guessing his associates. Not anymore. Time was far too short. He knew what he had to do.

He had to take charge of monitoring Gaia himself.

TOM WATCHED SILENTLY AS ELLA RAN back down Perry Street and clattered up the stairs of her brownstone.
But it wasn't until he heard the door being bolted that he allowed the pent-up air to explode from his lungs.

My God.
He felt sick. He crouched behind a parked car, shivering uncontrollably. No wonder George was miserable. Ella clearly wanted out of their relationship. Tom had heard only a scrap of her conversation, but it was enough:
“I won't let it happen again. I swear to you. It's just the pressure of—of everything. And I'm not having an affair …”

A dozen questions festered in his mind as he crept back down Perry Street toward Bleecker. He knew that agency life could put a strain on marriages; divorces were common. But still, something in Ella's voice suggested that her problems weren't just marital. No. Something deeper was going on.

Tom rounded the corner and headed east on Bleecker, burying his face in his jacket collar to protect it from the icy wind. He knew he shouldn't jump to conclusions. And he shouldn't interfere. Despite the fact that George and Ella were watching Tom's daughter, their marriage was
their
business. Still, the last bit he'd heard was particularly troubling: the part where Ella claimed that she
wasn't
having an affair. If she were, that would account for all the peculiarities and unhappiness. Tom wouldn't be pleased, obviously—but at least he would understand the situation.

But this … this was just baffling.

He went over her enigmatic remarks again. And again. The more he thought about them, the less they made sense. Who was on the other end? Judging from her subservient tone and obvious fear, it almost seemed like she was talking to a superior of some kind—somebody who had great influence and control over her life. But Ella didn't have a boss. She was a freelance photographer. So … a gallery owner, maybe? Or a magazine editor? Somebody who knew about George but still wanted to have an affair with Ella—and maybe suspected she was involved with somebody else …

Forget it.
Tom shook his head. Speculating would accomplish nothing. Worse, it would drive him crazy. No, if he was going to get to the bottom of this, he would simply have to watch Ella as closely as he watched Gaia.
And
Sam Moon.

Too bad he couldn't be in three places at once.

Again, Tom's thoughts returned to his old friend George. He trusted him. He believed in George's instincts and his judgment enough to entrust to him his precious daughter. He hoped he hadn't made a terrible error.

A
couple of years ago, before the accident, my sister used to love showing me off to her hip, twenty-something Manhattan posse. “Do you guys know my brother, Ed? He's, like, the most killer skateboarder. He's gonna break a lot of hearts someday. Just look at him. Yes, sir. The Heartbreak Kid.”

I always pretended to be really embarrassed, too—even though I loved the attention. It was awesome. I mean, having a bunch of hot twenty-two-year-old girls calling you the Heartbreak Kid? What fifteen-year-old boy
wouldn't
love that? And it got even better when I started going out with Heather. I became an official stud.

But then
ka-blammo!
Game over. Accident. Hospital. Paralysis. Wheelchair.

It was kind of hard to keep being a stud.

My sister couldn't deal. So she literally disappeared. I can count the number of times I've seen her since the accident on one hand. The first time was right afterward, and it was so forced and awkward I found myself trying to make
her
feel better. Since then it's always been with a group of her friends. As if they can offer some kind of protection. A buffer to keep her from seeing reality.

The real icing on the cake, though, is that she always says really painful and inappropriate things to them. And always in a very loud voice: “You'll be back on your feet in no time, Ed. Back to breaking girls' hearts. Just a couple of months more of rehabilitation, right?”

Wrong, sis. I'll be sitting here forever.

She has no idea she's making an ass of herself, though. She doesn't even know that she's pissing me off. For all I know, she might really believe what she's saying. In a way, she almost has to. Because then she doesn't have to deal with the very ugly truth: that the Heartbreak Kid is long gone. The Paraplegic Kid has taken his place.

She felt like she was
outside
herself. Completely detached. No longer in control. Somebody else was pulling the strings.

FIRST THING IN THE MORNING, GAIA usually liked to sneak downstairs and stuff her face with some kind of sugar-coated cereal. Froot Loops were her personal favorite. She would pour a bowl and whorf it down before Ella and George had a chance to wake up, then she would split for school. And if Ella and George happened to be up already, then Gaia would just have to walk straight out the door—and head to the nearest bodega for a rapid infusion of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Weekends were a little trickier.

She never knew what to expect. Sometimes Gaia would walk into the kitchen and find George there, hunched over the newspaper. Then she'd have to engage in actual conversation. Sometimes (very infrequently, thank God) George and Ella would make a lame attempt at a “family breakfast”—and Gaia would find herself subjected to French toast in the presence of the Nivens.

To put it bluntly, weekend mornings were a gamble.

But today Gaia was determined to avoid
any
contact with her foster parents. She'd set her alarm for seven o'clock, and—despite the struggle involved with forcing herself out of bed—she'd managed to get
dressed by seven-twelve. She was on a mission. She was going to walk straight to Sam Moon's dorm room and find out what the hell had happened last night.

Yes. She was going to shake him out of bed and demand an answer to the following questions: (1) Why did he carry her home and drop her on the front stoop without any explanation? (2)
Did
he, in fact, carry her home and drop her on the front stoop without any explanation? (3) Why did he invite her out in the first place?

Sam owes me an explanation,
she thought, tiptoeing down the stairs past Ella and George's room. Damn straight. At the very least he owed her an apology. She dashed down the last flight of stairs and yanked her coat from the closet, slamming the door behind her before she'd even pulled it on.