Living Proof, стр. 23

“No,” Trent said. “I feel that it’s not my business.”

Dopp had been standing sideways at the window, his nose and chin a jagged silhouette against the light. But at this remark, he turned to face Trent, and the room seemed to darken with his expression.

“That is exactly what it is, Trent.” His voice was deeper and softer, as if it were emerging from a cave in the back of his throat. “I want you to find out, however you can, where she is going. That’s your job. Do it.” He spoke evenly; his lips were the only part of his face that moved. There was no trace of anger in his tone, yet Trent felt the hot rise of intimidation tempered by resentment. Then Dopp’s lip lifted, stretching one corner of his mouth up: I have faith in you. It was the parentheses to his command that reassured Trent he was still in his boss’s good graces.

He had marched out of Dopp’s office, cell phone in hand, and called Arianna to schedule another bike ride for today after work, ostensibly to make up for the previous day’s foiled ride. But she had declined without an excuse.

“I’ll call you,” she told him, though her tone was not unfriendly. She said nothing about her sudden exit, and despite his determination to learn more, Trent could not bring himself to ask about it. He returned to Dopp ashamed, unable to push the boundaries of propriety. And his control was sliding; she had swiftly seized the upper hand for their future planning.

“If you can’t call her right away, and you can’t ask her where she’s going,” Dopp said, “then watch.”

The window behind Dopp’s head was streaked with rain; the storm had just begun. Trent saw his advantage: the umbrella was a lucky tool in a last-minute arsenal of disguises.

Now he brought it low over his forehead, just above his eyes. Where was she going to go when she left the clinic? Not home, he hoped. If he could find out even just an address, then he would have a location to investigate.

Rain could not have been her reason for declining to bike, he realized, since this storm had started within the last hour. He sighed impatiently, bouncing his knees and staring at the door of the squat, old building that housed her clinic. It was squeezed (ironically, he thought) next to the university’s Catholic Center, which peaked much higher than its neighbor. Adding five feet to its height, atop the center stood a gold cross. On sunny days, the clinic dwelt in its thin, elongated shadow. Trent’s eyes wandered up to admire the cross, and then a peripheral movement on the ground tugged his focus back.

The brown door had swung open, and in the moment before a purple NYU umbrella bloomed in front of her, Arianna’s face was visible. From Trent’s distance, he could not pinpoint her expression, only her distinctly tall figure. She pulled her umbrella down over her head and started walking east, away from Trent. Her stride was quicker than usual, despite her slightly uneven gait.

A strange limp kept some pressure off her right leg. Maybe she had sprained her ankle, and that was her excuse. But why wouldn’t she have said so? He kept his eyes on her retreating figure. Trent knew from their conversations, and had confirmed it with a public record search, that she lived at Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street, just one block north of the park. If she was going home, walking due east, she was certainly taking a roundabout route.

He waited until she reached the southeast corner of the park before he jumped up from the bench. He walked briskly with his black umbrella touching his head, so the canopy completely blocked his face. Her purple umbrella stood out on the drab street, so when he lifted his own periodically, he caught sight of her. She continued walking east for six blocks until reaching Broadway, and then crossed the wide street and started walking north, without slowing her step. Fifteen seconds behind her, Trent neared the crosswalk. The red hand flashed at him in vain: His eyes were riveted to her figure across the street with such focus, he was almost surprised she did not turn around to acknowledge it. At the threshold of the curb, with his umbrella hoisted above his eyes, Trent sized up the situation: four lanes of cars lined the crosswalk; beyond the intersection, Arianna was nearing the block’s first corner, hugging the sidewalk’s edge as though she was about to turn out of sight.

His feet made the decision for him, hitting the asphalt a second before the light dropped to green. He reached the middle of the intersection before the honking started—an angry cab swerved around him, forcing him to straddle the white line of one middle lane; behind the first cab, another driver honked and glared when he saw Trent, frozen amidst the flow of cars. The honking swelled to a cacophony of dissident pitches sustained in annoyance. More than fear, Trent felt frustrated by his trap, and he looked past the traffic to regain his focus on Arianna. As she turned the corner, he saw her lift her umbrella to look back, no doubt to assess the commotion he had caused—

He pulled his own umbrella down so quickly, it slammed his head. But seconds later, he dared to lift his makeshift tent and saw she was gone. At least she didn’t see me, he thought; if she had, she would have backtracked over to him. As the green light sucked away precious seconds, Trent kneaded the white line with his toes to keep his feet from dashing in front of any other cars as they continued to honk and swerve around him. The rain was pounding merciless bullets on his umbrella, as the windshield wipers of the cars swished furiously back and forth. When he saw red brake lights reflecting off the glistening street, he raced to