Tom Dolby - The Trust

Now it was Patch’s turn to laugh. “You’re not going to believe it.”

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s Patch.”

She paused, and then smiled. “No, seriously.”

“Really. It’s Patch Evans.”

“Okay, Patch, patch. I get it. Is that like your trademark or something?” She reached out again and quickly stroked his cheek. It wasn’t romantic or anything-more like playful.

“No, it’s-”

He was cut off as the buzzer in the front sounded, and Lia jumped up. “Party’s over,” she said. “Back to work.”

“Can I buy the other album?” Patch asked. It was a big purchase-he could get four albums for its price on iTunes-but he still wanted it. He would put it on his credit card, though he knew it was a little irresponsible, given his financial situation.

“Why don’t you just take it?” she said. “I’ll tell my boss that someone scratched it and it was ruined. It happens sometimes.”

“Hey, you don’t have to do that.”

“Okay, I won’t.” She went back to sorting receipts at the counter while keeping an eye on the customers who had just walked in, two tattooed guys with a Rottweiler.

Patch laughed. “No-that’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s really cool of you. I don’t have much cash right now, and I’ve wanted something by these guys for, like, forever. You’re sure it’s not a problem?”

She shrugged. “We comp small stuff to our good customers all the time. I’ll just pretend you’re a really good customer.”

“What can I do for you?” Patch asked.

She scribbled her number on the back of a show flyer, as he felt the blood rush to his neck again. “Here’s what you can do: call me sometime.”

After parting ways with Nick, Phoebe wanted to tell her mother about what had happened but decided against it. Despite the undeniable evidence in the studio that the rats actually had been there-the room reeked of cleaning supplies after the crew had given the floor a thorough scrubbing-she didn’t want to get into it with Maia. Her mom would probably never notice the rips in Phoebe’s canvases anyway; she might just think it was part of the work.

When Phoebe had mentioned the Society to her mother back in the fall, Maia had sent her to Dr. Meckling. The psychiatrist, who was part of the Society himself, had implied that Phoebe was suffering from delusions and should possibly be hospitalized. After returning from the retreat at Isis Island, Phoebe had been afraid to say anything to her mom about what had happened there, for fear that her mother would, once again, think she was crazy.

Now she didn’t even want to mention the rats to Daniel; though he was in the Society himself, he might not believe her.

Her mother and Daniel arrived home, and Maia busied herself in the kitchen. Phoebe sat in the living room with Daniel and tried to concentrate on the reading for her literature class, a book of Kafka stories. As the fire he had lit started to crackle, Phoebe found that the text was starting to blend together on the page. She looked up from her book and tried to relax her eyes.

“Is everything okay with school?” Daniel said. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks,” Phoebe said drily. “That’s always nice to hear.”

“Anything going on? It’s only the first few days into the new semester, right?”

“I’m not sure you would understand,” Phoebe said.

“Is it about the retreat?” he asked quietly.

“Well, yeah, for starters.” After he had told her mother to send her to Meckling, Phoebe didn’t know whether she could trust him or not. But he was being nice to her tonight, and she thought that if he opened up, it might help her piece together answers to some of the many questions she had.

“I think-” Daniel paused, as if carefully measuring what he was about to say. “I think you may be taking all this stuff with the Society too seriously. The work the Society has done over the years has been exemplary, and I think you’re ignoring that in favor of a few minor incidents. There’s the work they’ve done philanthropically, and the connections they help people to make. All that stuff, the initiations, the stuff on the island, that’s all just to get people excited about it. Sort of like a pep rally.”

Phoebe scoffed. “Um, a pep rally where they burn coffin effigies of two people? Come on, Daniel, two people my age died! That certainly wasn’t smoke and mirrors.”

Daniel looked back nervously at the closed door leading to the kitchen. “You know we need to be discreet about this, Phoebe. It’s a privilege to be picked for the Society, and you’re treating it like it’s some kind of high school prank.”

“What will happen if I tell my mom again? Will you get in trouble?” Phoebe sneered at him. She was surprising herself; it wasn’t like her to act this way.

“I think you know. The Council won’t tolerate insubordination. You’re ignoring all the good that the Society has done, and focusing on the bad. Have you heard about the renovations at the Met? Ninety percent of that has been funded by Society contributions.”

Phoebe sighed. “My friends and I are just so sick of all these rules. You really believe in all this?” She was starting to wonder herself. Maybe she had overreacted to everything. Maybe Jared’s death had been an accident. But Alejandro’s death: Parker Bell had admitted to them that he had orchestrated it. She didn’t know why she kept doubting herself. The Society was corrupt, and within her first two weeks in New York, she had gotten involved in it.

She should have known better.

Daniel leaned toward her. “I believe that if we live according to the best ideals that have been set forth for us, we can achieve our maximum potential.”

Phoebe nodded blankly and turned back to her reading. Talking to Daniel wasn’t going to do any good.

When Phoebe had arrived in Manhattan four months ago from California, she had wanted her New York to be like the one she had seen in the movies.

Now it was, in a sense.

The only problem was that it was the wrong kind of movie.

After parting ways with Phoebe, Nick took the subway back home. He decided to get off several stops early, on Lexington Avenue in the Sixties. It was a chilly night, but with everything that had happened, he wanted to take a walk and clear his head. As he was about to cross the street and go west toward Fifth, Nick got a call from Thad.

“Did you hear what happened to me today?” his new friend said. “I’ve just spent the last four hours in the headmistress’s office.” Thad attended the Whitford School on West End Avenue, but gossip about people Nick knew usually reached him, even if they didn’t go to Chadwick.

“What did you do? I wasn’t at school today, so I didn’t hear.”

“I didn’t do anything! I opened my locker between first and second period, and a bottle of gin fell out. It shattered all over the floor, and you know how gin smells like-”

“Like my parents in the summer?” Nick interrupted.

Thad laughed grimly. “I was going to say like gin, but yeah, whatever. Anyway, you couldn’t miss it. I was pulled in by the headmistress, and she was not pleased. You know how crazy they are about drinking. I guess it’s the same at Chadwick.”

“Don’t remind me.” Nick had been admonished for hosting a party that was featured in New York magazine, and he was still trying to regain credibility at school as someone who wasn’t a complete screwup.

“I’ve been suspended for a week,” Thad said. “I would have been expelled, but I told them there was no way the bottle was mine. My father threatened to bring in a lawyer and do a forensic test on the broken bottle and everything. That got them to back down. But I’m still suspended, and the incident may go on my permanent record.”