The Trust

by Tom Dolby

  “You’re sure it was them?”

  “Who else would it be?” Nick asked. “I’ve seen rats in New York City, but you usually get one or two in the basement, not a swarm on your third floor.”

  “We all went along with it, Nick. It’s my fault as much as anyone’s.”

  The guys started working on the problem, advising Nick and Phoebe that they might want to leave the house for a few hours. “I’ve got to warn you, you might want to call a cleaning service afterward,” one of the guys said. “We can get all the vermin out, but there’s still—well, there’s still everything they leave behind.”

  “Like what?” Phoebe asked.

  The guy made a face. “Rat droppings. They’re messy creatures.”

  Phoebe sat down at the kitchen table and put her head into her arms, unable to process this last bit of information. “It’s like the worst part isn’t the actual rats—it’s that it gets inside your head.”

  She started hyperventilating, as Nick tried to comfort her. “Let me get some clothes for you, and you can shower and change at my place. You can always stay there for a few days if you need to.”

  “No, I don’t want to do that. We need to get this place cleaned up,” Phoebe said. “I feel like the longer we wait, the more nasty it’s going to get.”

  “Should we just skip school?” Nick said. “I mean, you’re a mess.”

  “I think we deserve it,” Phoebe said. “I know that I’m still completely exhausted.” It may have only been the third day of classes, but Phoebe felt a tiredness that ran so deep, she didn’t know if it would ever leave her.

  Nick found a cleaning service that specialized in unusual situations, and within a few hours after the exterminators left, the studio was almost back to normal, though Phoebe’s paintings were still chewed up. Nick took her to her doctor, who gave her a series of shots, as she had a small bite on her foot.

  By four P.M., they were sitting at a neighborhood café, having a late lunch that was little comfort. Phoebe picked at her croque monsieur, but found she wasn’t hungry.

  “This whole thing is so messed up,” she said. “You really think this is their way of telling us that we can’t miss a meeting? Wouldn’t it have been easier to send a note?”

  Nick looked at her seriously. “Come on, Phoebe. Would a note really have had the same effect?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Now that the semester had started, Lauren had resumed her internship at Giroux New York, though she had been promoted in her responsibilities after the success of her jewelry line in the fall. Not only was she designing the line, but she had been given the chance to work under the merchandising director in setting up the jewelry displays at the store. Giroux was always known for its elegant and creative displays: last year they had displayed jewelry inside giant fish tanks with real fish, and the year before, they had rented a grove of potted Japanese maples on which the pieces had hung.

  On Wednesday afternoon, she met with Antonio, the merchandising director, about the display, and then went downstairs to the design library, where they kept a collection of reference books and magazines. The concept was the zodiac, with a different set of jewelry representing each astrological sign. She felt like she was hit in the gut when she got to the images for Leo, which was Alejandro’s sign.

  His birthday would have been in August. Since they had met in September, she had never even gotten to celebrate his birthday with him. She gulped back her tears and tried to focus on her work.

  About an hour into her research, the intercom buzzed. It was a salesgirl from the first floor. “Lauren, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Lauren walked upstairs, wondering who it could be.

  When she saw that it was Claire Chilton and her mother, she rolled her eyes, only realizing as she did it that she was fully in their view.

  “Lauren,” Claire’s mother, Letty, said. “What a treat.”

  Letty Chilton was a stout woman who was known for her personal frugality, even though she sat on the boards of several multimillion-dollar institutions and was known to give generously. She would wear Oscar de la Renta suits from the eighties until the elbows were nearly worn through, and she hadn’t redecorated their apartment since Claire had been born. Recently, however, her husband had come into a great deal of family money, and the word was that she was spending more freely. Still, the main thing Lauren always associated with her was that she stank of stale Chanel No. 5. Today was no exception.

  Lauren greeted her and Claire civilly.

  “I’m hoping you can help us out,” Mrs. Chilton said. “In fact, I know you can help us out. Claire needs some new clothes for the season, and I’ve heard you have the best eye.”

  “Well, I can recommend you to a stylist,” she said. “I’m really focusing on the jewelry now.”

  “That’s right, your little jewelry line,” Mrs. Chilton said. “So sweet.”

  “We want your employee discount,” Claire said.

  Mrs. Chilton glared at her daughter, and then smiled at Lauren. “We wouldn’t want to impose, of course.”

  “You know, I’m really not supposed to do that,” Lauren said. “They don’t even let us use it all the time. And I’m not really a full-fledged employee.”

  “Of course you’re not. So what does it matter? Anyway, we so appreciate it. I know you’ll do a marvelous job picking out some outfits for Claire.”

  “Actually, I don’t really have time—”

  “Thank you, Lauren.” Mrs. Chilton turned and walked away, as if the matter was settled and there was nothing more to discuss.

  “I’ll give you the name of a stylist,” Lauren said to Claire. Lauren wrote a name down on a card and handed it to Claire. “If you want a discount, you’ll have to talk to Sebastian. Here’s his extension. He’d be happy to talk to you, I’m sure.”

  After Lauren had said good-bye to Claire, she was fuming. How dare Claire march in there and demand that she serve her like a shopgirl? Even Lauren didn’t like using her employee discount too often for herself, as it made her look like a spendthrift in front of the other employees, who could barely afford clothes at a designer sample sale, let alone at Giroux. The thing that really annoyed Lauren was that Claire would probably get the discount from Sebastian, if she spent enough.

  At the end of the day, after Lauren had finished her work downstairs and created a look board for the concept, there was a flurry of activity near the door.

  Sabrina Harriman, the store’s creative director, stood near the front door. The store had closed for the evening, and the staff was getting ready to leave.

  “People, listen up, we have a problem! The pair of limited-edition sapphire earrings is gone from the jewelry case. They were here this afternoon, so I don’t know what could have happened. We didn’t even show them to any customers.”

  Everyone gasped. The sapphire earrings were one of the most expensive items in the entire store and were kept in a locked glass case. They retailed for four thousand dollars.

  “I’m so sorry to have to do this,” Sabrina said, “but we’re going to need to search everyone’s bags before you leave.”

  Lauren stood in line, annoyed that this would make her late in getting home. What kind of person would work at the store and steal a pair of earrings? Not only that, but a pair that would certainly be missed?

  Lauren reached the front of the line. “Hey, Danny,” she said to the security guard. He was a sweet bear of a guy, and she had always made an effort to greet him by name. He took her bag.

  “Sorry about this,” he said, muttering under his breath. His eyes suddenly opened wide. “Lauren, what the—”

  “What?”

  “Lauren!” He pulled out the earrings, still in their box, and held them up for Sabrina and everyone else to see.

  “What!?” Lauren felt her neck growing hot. “That’s absurd!” She turned to Sabrina. “Sabrina, you know I would never do anything like this.”

  She grabbed the earrings
from Danny and handed the jewelry box back to Sabrina.

  “Lauren, I don’t know what to say,” Sabrina said as she took the box.

  Sebastian Giroux had come up from his office. “What is going on?”

  “We have a problem here. Lauren, I’m afraid we might need to press charges.”

  Lauren glared at her, though inside she was completely mortified. Someone must have planted the earrings in her bag while she was working. Her bag had been in her locker most of the afternoon. The lockers were in an employee staff area, and anyone could have gained access to it—that is, anyone with the master combination.

  Who would have done it? One of the Society’s lackeys? A Giroux staff member? Sebastian himself? Sebastian was a member of the Society, but Lauren couldn’t imagine him doing this to her.

  It didn’t matter who had done this; it only mattered that it had happened. She was being sent a message, just like the handbag she had received back in September. Only this time, it was a message of a different type: a spiteful reminder that she shouldn’t miss any more meetings.

  “No charges will be pressed,” Sebastian said to his staff. “We’ll handle it internally. You can all go home for the night. Lauren, please stay behind so we can discuss this.”

  Everyone filed out, a few of them giving Lauren sympathetic looks and others averting their eyes.

  Lauren sat down on a chaise where customers usually tried on shoes. “Look, I am completely horrified, but you’ve got to believe me, I have no idea how those earrings got into my bag. It was in my employee locker for most of the afternoon—could someone have slipped them in there? I mean, come on, Sebastian, you know me. If I really wanted those earrings, I would have asked my mom to buy them for me. Why would I do something to jeopardize my relationship with the store?”

  Sabrina shrugged.

  “She’s right,” Sebastian said. “Sabrina, you and I can discuss this between the two of us. Good night, Lauren.”

  Lauren zipped up her bag and slinked away. No one at the store would have done this to her. Even though Sebastian was in the Society, she knew that he liked her. The horrible thing, of course, about being accused of something like this was that even if you didn’t do it, you still felt guilty.

  And that, she imagined, was exactly what the Society had wanted her to feel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That afternoon, Patch went downtown to shop for some new music. The kind of stuff he really loved he couldn’t find on iTunes: remixes, obscure tracks, bootlegs. He had even bought a used pair of direct drive turntables and was starting to expand his record collection so that he could start DJing using real vinyl. The store he had wanted to check out, East Village Sounds, was on Sixth Street, and was two steps down from street level. It was a dank, musty shop, with walls covered in posters, stickers, and graffiti, each year’s tastes obscured by the next. At the front, they sold T-shirts, and the countertop was covered in flyers for shows at local venues: $2 COVER! FIRST HOUR, FREE WELL DRINKS! OPENING ACT: BEELZEBUB’S KITTEN!

  It was a far cry from the posh, slick nightclub world that Nick and his friends inhabited, but Patch liked it.

  He browsed around the store, carefully tracing the perimeter of the room and avoiding contact with the girl with dark eyes and jet black hair who was staffing the counter. She had on her earbuds anyway and seemed disinterested in the fact that Patch was in the store.

  There was a listening booth near the cash register, like in the old days, where you could bring a record to the front and they would unwrap it for you. There was one Patch wanted to hear, but it was forty-five dollars. It was a limited-edition press of an album by some obscure French DJs; he had read on a blog that it was huge all over Europe.

  He brought it up to the front and smiled at the girl. She was pretty, lithe, half Asian, perhaps. She wore a baggy sweater, one shoulder off, over a long black Goth skirt, over leggings. Though it might have made some girls look sloppy, on her it looked cool.

  Patch had grown more confident lately, which made him less shy about interactions like this: his arms were muscular from his trips to the gym, his hair was shorn in a way that, even though he had done it himself with a pair of clippers, didn’t look half bad, and he had noticed that his new attitude had somehow made his skin look clearer, brighter. What had changed in his life on the outside that could have caused this? The Society, for one thing. But maybe he had changed on the inside as well.

  She sighed as he handed her the album, giving him a weary look. “You want to listen to that one?”

  Patch nodded. “Is that okay?”

  “Oh, you’d only be about the eighth person this week who’s requested it. No one ever wants to buy it because it’s too expensive.”

  “What if I do want to buy it?”

  She scoffed. “Why would you buy it when you can rip it off the net so easily?”

  “Maybe I like vinyl.”

  She paused. “Oh. Seriously?”

  “I just bought a pair of turntables last week.”

  “Last week? Wow, you must be really experienced.” She gave him a shy smile.

  Was she making fun of him? Or was it possible that she was flirting with him?

  “Come on back here,” she said, placing the record aside. “I’ll show you some stuff that’s far better than those Parisian twits.”

  Patch’s eyes widened. “Don’t you have to watch the store?”

  “It’s cool, there’s a sensor on the door so I can hear when someone comes in.” In the storeroom in the back, she grabbed a box cutter and for a moment, Patch was cautious. She started opening several UPS boxes. “We just got these in,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to open them.”

  “Why is now the right moment?”

  She smiled. “I don’t know. You’re the first semi-normal person to walk in today.”

  “Maybe someday I’ll make it to normal,” Patch said. It was a weak attempt at humor, but she didn’t seem to mind. He felt happy here, a warm feeling that seemed miles away from Chadwick and his life on the Upper East Side. “So what’s so special about these albums?”

  She held them up in their slick plastic wrappers, the wild colors of their artwork flickering in the light. “You know when music can completely transport you?” she said. “That’s what I’m after. I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke. These are my drugs.” She motioned to all the record albums and grinned. “They will get you more messed up than any drug can.”

  Patch knew what she meant. He wanted to stay off drinking himself, but around Nick and the others, it was hard. Now, standing there with this girl, it was cool to meet someone who didn’t need chemicals to keep herself entertained.

  She turned on the music, and it washed over them both, track after track. It was their own private listening booth, much more exclusive than the little phone booth–sized compartment in the front. She smiled at him. She had a gap between her two front teeth, which was cute.

  “I’m Lia, by the way,” she said.

  Patch nodded. He realized, half a song later, that he probably should have told her his name, but the moment had passed.

  In between one of the tracks, she cracked a smile for no reason.

  “What?” Patch said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No, tell me!”

  “You really want me to? I barely know you.”

  What was it? Did he have bad breath? Did his socks not match?

  She leaned forward and touched a spot on his jawline. “You have a patch where you missed shaving,” she said. “That’s all.”

  Patch felt his face turning red.

  “Oh, now you’re blushing!” she teased him. “It’s not a big deal. My ex-boyfriend used to do it all the time. He was always in such a hurry, he would miss a spot.”

  “Sorry,” Patch said, chagrined. “Though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing to you.” He felt like such a dork.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” she asked.
/>   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.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  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.