Living Proof, стр. 5
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Who do you write for?”
“I’m a freelancer. Got to depend on my own instincts to find stories. What do you do?”
“I’m in real estate. And I’m sure there’s lots more interesting things happening in New York City,” she said, and then added, “Good luck,” for fear of seeming rude.
She started to fish her sunglasses out of her purse. When she found them, he was still standing there.
“You couldn’t even point me in the right direction, at least?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Sorry, I don’t have a clue what you mean,” she replied, and crossed the street toward Washington Square Park. Don’t run, she thought. Don’t look back, and don’t touch your phone yet. She ambled through the park, forcing herself to concentrate on the sunset-orange trees, the park’s glorious fountain, and a nearby acrobat who had drawn an impressive crowd. She eased among the chanting people, pretending to watch the man doing backflips over a row of tin cans. When she had inched into the first layer of people, she knew the reporter could no longer see her, so she withdrew her cell phone from her purse and called Arianna.
It rang twice before she picked up. “Hey, I’m okay now—”
“Arianna, I think somebody might know something.”
TWO
Trent Rowe looked at his watch and sighed—12:35 P.M. Four hours and twenty-five minutes until the weekend. For the second time that day, he thought how oppressive it was that his office did not have a window. If only he could see the sky, or the sleek façade of another building, even a sliver of daylight. The headquarters were in the heart of Midtown: mid-Midtown, he thought wryly. Midway up the building, midway through the day, midlife crisis well under way. He was only thirty-six, though he felt much older. Not a sense of maturity, it was more a lack-of-freedom-until-he-could-retire kind of old.
He glanced up at the only picture on the wall where he would have liked his window. Framed in imitation gold, it was the famous portrayal of the Crucifixion. Blood dripped from Jesus’ nailed palms, and his head hung forward limply, crowned with a ring of thorns. It was a gift from Trent’s supervisor, Gideon Dopp, when he had started the job three years ago. Dopp, a former priest, explained that Jesus’ suffering was a daily reminder of why their work mattered: the modern-day version of catching heretic killers like those who murdered Christ. That the crimes now lacked visible gore made them no less violent. Trent’s job offered the chance to stamp out these sins, serve justice, and uphold morality.
Trent Rowe was an agent at the New York City bureau of the Department of Embryo Preservation.
“Trent,” spoke a voice in his doorway.
He closed the game of solitaire on his screen, which luckily faced away from the door, and looked up. Dopp’s square shoulders reached both sides of the doorway. His eyes were intense, and he had the perfectly straight nose of a nobleman. One side of his mouth dipped down when he smiled, yet it seemed entirely genuine. That was one of the reasons Trent admired him: He was no phony, and on some level, Trent knew that he himself was.
“Hi, boss,” he said.
Dopp clasped the doorframe. “We’re starting in ten minutes. Are you ready?”
“All set.” Trent’s lips spread into an ashamed smile; he had forgotten about his presentation. “I think you’re going to find it very interesting,” he added hastily.
“Good. Banks and Jed are both back.”
When Dopp left, Trent returned to moving red on black, black on red, letting his eyes blur over the colors.
All week, he had been researching one fertility clinic. It was an arduous task, but Trent knew Dopp would be happy with his research. Trent had first noticed this certain clinic’s unusual spike in popularity while going over routine reports, and now Dopp would be even more pleased with the surprising results of his digging. Maybe it would help propel him out of this office and into one with a window.
The thought of a promotion filled him with superficial warmth, like drinking froth instead of coffee. A promotion would confirm that he was right for this job, a validation he desperately wanted, and it would show the world what a success he was, so maybe the fact that he didn’t feel like one wouldn’t matter. He looked at the painting of the Crucifixion, convincing himself that he had every reason to feel successful: His work was more worthy here than it had been at the newspaper. Here he was able to defend the tenets of Christianity, help the helpless, expose the corrupt, preserve human life.
But sometimes he wondered what his life would be like if he had stayed at Newsday, Long Island’s biggest paper, where he had worked the investigative beat. There were thrilling moments, to be sure, such as when he had single-handedly uncovered a money-laundering scheme at one of the biggest churches on the Island. It had taken guts to ingratiate himself with the priests, to draw out answers to the right questions under a guise of harmlessness. Oh, how he basked in the respect of his editors when his front-page series on the fraud had even earned him a spot as a Pulitzer finalist, his proudest moment to date. But despite his success, that story had crushed his religious consciousness. Later, there would be more such stories—the worst being gay priests who preyed on little boys—that made him privately question God’s very existence. It was too dangerous a precipice, and Trent had pulled back swiftly before looking down too far. His editors were devastated when he told them he was leaving to join the DEP. But here he could restore his damaged connection to God, with no doubts about false leads or