Trust (11 page)

AFTER PLAYING A COUPLE OF CHESS games in the park with her old friends Zolov and Mr. Haq, Gaia couldn't stand the cold anymore. How did these guys do it? Gaia had a pretty high pain threshold . . . but still. These guys were crazy. They were chess
addicts
.

“Where you go, Ceendy?” Zolov called after her as she hurried toward West Fourth Street. “You don't want nother game?”

Gaia just waved over her shoulder, laughing to herself. One of these days she would really have to tell Zolov that her name wasn't Cindy. He probably wouldn't believe it, though. The guy was ninety years old. People that old never believed anything new. They were set in their ways. It must be nice, she reflected, to be so certain of the truth. . . .

By walking fast, Gaia was able to warm up just a little bit. It was amazing how quickly the temperature plunged when the sun went down. Her eyes roamed over all the people in the park — mostly couples, walking and huddled together for warmth. She felt an odd pang of loneliness. Tonight she would eat alone . . . yet again. Unless Ella and George were home, of course. But she doubted they would be, and even if they
were
, there was no way Ella would want to sit at the same table as Gaia — not after nearly beating her senseless.

Too bad Ed wasn't available for dinner. He was going to the hospital to see Heather's sister — the one he'd once said he wanted to sleep with, back when Mary and Gaia and Ed were playing truth or dare. Now that girl was in the hospital, almost dead because she'd been trying to lose weight. Gaia swallowed. How did people get so messed up?

Turning down Perry Street, she saw that no lights were on inside the Nivens' brownstone. Good. It looked like she had the place to herself. After a rousing dinner of Lucky Charms, she would go upstairs for a steaming bath, then finish her homework.

Five feet from the front door, Gaia paused to pull out her key. Then she froze. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

“Watch out!” a voice shouted.

Dad?
Gaia wondered, stunned, even as her reflexes took control and she dove for cover, rolling across the sidewalk to the curb. It sounded like his voice —

A huge chunk of brick and cement exploded on the ground with a deafening crash — less than two yards away from her. Gaia covered her head with her hands. Bits of stone stung her flesh. In less than a second, though, the shower of debris had ended. A thick cloud of dust settled over her.

What the hell was going on? Gaia took her arm from her face and scanned the area. No sign of her father. Was it really his voice? No. Impossible. She supposed it could have been her uncle's . . . but then, where was he? Her eyes flashed to the pile of broken rock next to her, then up at the Nivens' brownstone. Jesus. Squinting, she could make out the ragged, broken top of a chimney, right at the front of the building.

The chimney had fallen off the freaking house.

All of a sudden the front door burst open and George came huffing out, eyes wide. “Gaia!” he called. His frightened gaze darted between her sprawled form and the pile. “What's happening? I was taking a nap, and I heard this noise. . . .” He crouched beside her. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Gaia sat up straight and pointed at the roof. “I think part of the chimney fell down,” she murmured.

He followed her outstretched finger, breathing hard. His nose was already turning red from the cold. “Oh my God,” he muttered. “How could that happen? We just had the roof repaired last fall.”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Gaia mumbled, brushing dust and grit off her jacket.

George helped her to her feet. “Are you all right? Oh, no, you have a cut on your cheek. It's a wonder you weren't killed.”

Yes, it was a wonder. In a daze, Gaia let him lead her inside — straight to a bathroom. She stood still while he gently washed her cut and put some antiseptic lotion on it. Her mind was racing in a dozen different directions. She
had
heard somebody's voice. And that voice had sounded like her father's. But that was clearly her overactive imagination. Her father was gone — forever. And good riddance. But whoever had called to her had known that the chimney was falling. Why, though? Why would a chimney fall at the very moment Gaia was under it? It couldn't be a coincidence. No. She would have to check out the roof for herself.

She couldn't be here. Not in school. But she was. She was
that
sick.

AS SOON AS ED WAS DONE WITH high school, he ne ver again wanted to be in a position where he had to get stuff out of metal lockers. He hated lockers. Everything about them was miserable: their color (gray), their smell (invariably like old gym socks — even if you didn't
wear
gym socks), their sound (that depressing clang). No, he vowed never to see a locker again. Which, he supposed, ruled out occupations like peace officer, firefighter, personal fitness trainer. But that was fine. The wheelchair pretty much ruled out those same jobs, too.

The moment he closed his locker door on this particular Monday morning, however, he hated it for another reason. He hated it because it was
his
— and therefore it was reasonable for people to assume that he could be found next to it. People like Gaia and Heather, for instance: who were now approaching him from opposite ends of the hall. Cornering him. Catching him in the middle.

Shit. His head slumped. This was exactly the kind of situation he had been afraid of. Whenever those two got together, disaster inevitably followed. Besides, he knew that Heather was probably still pissed off at him. And when Heather was pissed off,
everyone
suffered. He should have called her yesterday. But he'd been expecting to see her at the hospital Saturday night when he'd gone to visit Phoebe. Unfortunately she'd already left. Phoebe had (very nobly) tried to smooth over the situation — telling him that Heather was head over heels in love with him, but still . . . this would be bad. He was sure of it.

Heather reached him first. Barely.

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at Gaia, then lowered her eyes to Ed. “We have to talk,” she stated.

Ed swallowed. He offered Gaia a feeble smile, then glanced back at Heather. “Okay,” he muttered. “Now?”

Heather nodded.

“Oh, hey, I saw Phoebe Saturday night,” he found himself commenting stupidly. But he couldn't help it. The tension kept him from thinking straight. “She looked better.”

“Yeah, for a skeleton,” Heather muttered. She glanced up at Gaia again.“Do you mind? I'm trying to talk to Ed.”

Gaia shrugged.“So am I.”

Blood started rushing to Ed's face. Maybe he should just scoot out of here and leave these two alone. . . .

“Maybe we could all get together after school and have coffee,” Gaia suggested sarcastically. “I know you love coffee.”

Ouch.
Ed bit his lip. He didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or run and hide. The first time Gaia met Heather, she'd spilled coffee all over her — and needless to say, the relationship worsened from there.

“Sorry, I can't,” Heather said with false politeness. “I'm meeting
Sam
after school.”

The name struck Ed like a punch in the gut. He whirled around, suddenly seething, forgetting all about Gaia and Heather's stupid problems with each other. What the hell was going on? Were Heather and Sam back together? After
everything?

“I'm breaking up with him today,” she added quietly, staring straight at Gaia.

Ed blinked. Well. Surprise number two. Again the world flipped over. “You are?” he asked — as he heard Gaia asking the exact same question at the exact same time.

“Yes,” said Heather. She smirked, her steely eyes flashing between the two of them. “If that's okay with you two.”

THINGS WERE GETTING BETTER, SAM realized. Yes. Step one of his self-improvement plan was already in place. He clutched the graded lab report in both hands, smiling down at the bright red B. All it took was a little extra focus, a little more concentration — and of course, the will to shut out everything else in his dismal life. But pretty soon he'd change the B to an A. He'd be back on track.

And later this very day he would initiate step two: breaking up with Heather.

For the first time in weeks he actually felt
in control
. He'd taken charge of himself. It was amazing how powerful that simple feeling could be.

“Okay, class, for Wednesday read chapter ten,” Dr. Witchell called from the front of the classroom. “We'll be conducting experiments on Friday.”

Sam nodded as he slung his backpack over one shoulder and pushed himself up from his cramped wooden chair.
Good
, he thought. More work.
Much
more work. He was actually looking forward to studying. Anything to take his mind off —

“Is your friend all right?”

He froze. Somebody was standing in the doorway.

Blood turned to ice in his veins. There was no way . . .

Ella smiled and stepped inside, allowing the rest of Sam's classmates to exit. Sam could only stand there and gape at her, petrified. No. She couldn't be here. Not in school. But she was. She was
that
sick.

Gradually everyone filed through the door. Ella's smile remained intact, her eyes fixed on Sam.

Dr. Witchell was the last one out. He stared at Ella, then shot Sam a confused glance. Sam would have done the same thing in his shoes. Sam was probably the only student who had ever had a beautiful, red-haired woman show up to greet him — decked out in a fur coat, no less.

“How's your friend?” Ella asked again once they were alone.

For a moment Sam couldn't breathe. In that instant he realized, with an appalling, stomach-dropping shock, that Ella must be referring to Mike. Which meant that she must have had something to do with his overdose.

“What do you know about it?” he hissed.

She didn't answer. She simply laughed. The sound of it was like the scrape of fingernails on a chalkboard.

Sam winced. He took a step forward. “You — ”

“See ya later, alligator,” Ella interrupted in a singsong voice. She darted out of the room, leaving him staring after her in horror. He wanted to catch up, to pin her against the wall, to demand that she tell him what she had done to Mike . . . but he couldn't move. Instead he collapsed against the wall, rubbing one hand through his hair. He was sweating, even though the classroom was cold.

Ella had almost killed Mike.

Which meant that Mike's OD was Sam's fault — all because Sam didn't want to sleep with Ella again. What was he going to do? What in God's name was he —

Actually, he knew the answer to that question.

Yes . . . he saw it now with perfect clarity. Ella had crossed the crucial line — the line where people's lives were at stake. And that meant Sam could stop her by any means necessary.
She
had set the new terms. He had no choice but to keep her from trying to kill again.

Whatever it took.

IT WAS AMAZING HOW EVOCATIVE certain smells were. Baby powder — a specific brand — always made Tom think of the day he and Katia had first brought Gaia home from the hospital. God, she had been so passive. She'd hardly ever cried. And she was big even then, with plump little arms and such smooth skin. . . .

Luckily Tom hadn't been around baby powder in a long time. He didn't know if he'd be able to handle the flood of memories it would unleash. Now, fading back into an NYU classroom, Tom was assailed by the scent of chalk. It instantly brought him back to the academy, the training he'd undergone there.

Luckily that training had saved his precious daughter's life.

He still couldn't believe how close Gaia had come to getting killed. When he'd seen Ella climbing up the roof of the brownstone, he was sure that she'd found the bugs. And when she'd jimmied around with one of the chimneys, he'd assumed she was yanking off wires — destroying about fifty thousand dollars' worth of stolen CIA material in the process.

But no. She'd been trying to kill Gaia.
His
daughter.

He clenched his fists at his sides as he stood still in the sterile, deserted lecture hall — hesitating as Sam strode past the open doorway. He knew that from this day forward, the smell of bricks and concrete would remind him of betrayal.

But what was Ella really
up
to — aside from trying to kill Gaia? It seemed apparent (at least from Sam's body language and the few scraps of conversation Tom had overheard) that Sam was
not
happy to be involved with Ella. He was simply another one of her victims. Which meant, by extension, that he was another one of Loki's victims. Were Ella and Loki blackmailing Sam in some way? Anything was possible. Oh, yes — after the stunt Ella had pulled Saturday, Tom knew that no act, no matter how depraved, was off-limits. Soon he would go to George. Soon he would tell George the truth.

But in the meantime he would corner Ella and acquire the concrete evidence he so desperately needed to prove her guilt.