Living Proof, стр. 32

“Yeah … and after work. You never talk about it. Maybe it’s the fiction writer in me, but I can’t help being curious.”

She smirked. “What, are you imagining I have some exciting double life? Doctor by day, superwoman by night?”

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Well,” she said, locking eyes with him, “it might come as a surprise, but I’m actually going to church.”

He laughed at the utter improbability of those words escaping her lips. But her expression remained the same: slight smile, wide eyes.

“Why?” he blurted, as if there were more than one reason why someone might go to church.

“To practice my religion,” she said; a strange amusement in her eyes made it seem as though she was joking.

“Well, what’s your religion?” he asked, playing along to whatever punch line she was aiming at.

“I go to a Christian church, like most everyone else.”

“Which one?”

“A small congregation in the East Village. You wouldn’t know it.”

The East Village, he thought with a start. That is where you have been going.…

“So wait, you’re serious? You really go to church?”

“Yeah.” She smiled broadly.

“Even midweek services?” he asked, unable to believe that she believed. They had hardly discussed religion before, and yet, somehow, her faith seemed contradictory.

“Yep.”

“How about tomorrow morning?” He knew no devout churchgoer would miss Sunday morning Mass, except in the most extreme circumstances.

“I expect to be strong enough to go.”

“Wow. I guess we have a lot left to learn about each other.” He frowned.

She merely laughed. “What’s wrong?”

“The thing is, no offense, but it just doesn’t make sense. How can you be so passionate about science and be that devout?”

She chuckled, slid her hand around the nape of his neck and pushed his head toward her lips. As they kissed, he was distracted by his own bewilderment: First she tells me she’s a good Christian, and now we’re making out? She wasn’t drunk, but maybe the drug she received was making her act loopy.

Her tongue sought out his, sliding into his mouth and setting off a tingling in his groin. No, his conscience scolded, you cannot let her turn you on. He slipped a hand underneath her tank top, caressing her flat stomach. Stop this now! the voice in his head shrieked. He leaned into her, wrapping her in his arms–

“Ow,” she said, depositing the word into his mouth.

He jerked away. “What happened?”

“My ribs are really bruised from my fall.” She sighed, leaning back. “This probably isn’t a good idea right now, as much as I wish it were.”

“You’re right,” he said as his sense flooded back, stinging as it scrubbed away his desire. “We should definitely wait.”

She lifted a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes, and winced. “You know what, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I think I actually need to go lie down. I really did want to see you, but I need to rest.”

He cringed as he watched another flash of pain wrinkle her brow. “Sure,” he said. “You should do that.”

“Thank you,” she said, opening her eyes. “I owe you a dinner. I’m actually a pretty good cook when I can get myself together.”

He smiled and got up, glancing past her into the hallway leading to another room, when a last-minute idea struck him.

“I’m just going to use your restroom before I leave,” he said.

“It’s in the hallway right next to my bedroom.”

As he got up, she lifted her bandaged legs onto the couch. He walked around her into the hallway, which was plastered with old-looking pictures of her and her parents, and a painting of the Sistine Chapel.

Maybe she really is religious, he marveled. He stepped into the bathroom and saw that it was far too tiny to hold laboratory materials like a freezer, a laminar flow hood, or a centrifuge. As she reclined on the sofa, he tiptoed out of the bathroom and ducked into her bedroom. The room smelled floral, like her hair. It was simply decorated, with a dark red bedspread, lacy white curtains dangling over a window, and white carpeting. On top of an oak dresser stood an array of orange prescription tubes filled with pills.

Feeling foolish, he turned and walked back into the hallway. As he passed the Sistine Chapel painting again, a shocking thought stopped him short: She could have found religion after college, and now she’s not doing anything wrong—we could be suspicious for nothing.… She could be innocent!

The possibility was so tantalizing that he felt a physical longing, a dull ache tug at his gut: the birth of hope produced its own set of pains. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished.

I am an agent of the DEP, he reminded himself, as if thinking it would properly align his loyalties.

He strode to the sofa, where Arianna was lying with her eyes closed. They fluttered open when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Good night,” he said.

She pulled on his arm, and as he leaned down to her, she planted a soft kiss on his lips. “You’re amazing,” she whispered.

He swallowed and drew back. “You, too.”

*   *   *

As soon as Trent closed her door behind him, he whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and called Dopp. He longed to hear the crystalline voice of reason, not the voice that had splintered in his mind, with each slice staking claim on a conflicting realm: logic versus emotion, right versus wrong, duty versus desire.

“No lab, boss,” he told Dopp. “But we did have an odd conversation.…” He recounted what she had told him. “I don’t know why,” he finished, “but it seems like she was lying or joking about church. It just doesn’t fit. Maybe she really is religious, though.”

“How could she be religious if she was upset about a creationist museum?”

“Maybe she was just upset about the blurred distinction between church and state? I remember her saying something about that.”

“I don’t buy it. I bet she’s lying and using the church excuse to cover something up. Tomorrow morning, go and poke your head into all