Tipping Point

by Helena Maeve

  “For what?”

  As much as his sister’s contempt stung, it was even worse to read pity in her gaze. Elijah nearly cut his eyes away. He resisted out of habit. Prison had taught him never to let a threat out of his sight.

  “We,” she said solemnly, “have work to do.”

  Chapter Two

  The block was nicer than any Elijah had ventured into since he got out. He couldn’t see any police cars, but he knew they were close. Wealthy residents had every reason to fear undesirables. They had so much more to lose.

  Jules pulled the Honda onto a cement-paved driveway. Elijah didn’t see her badge in or enter any code, but the roll-up garage door opened for them anyway, the driveway sloping down into the open maw of a tall terracotta tower.

  Elijah squirmed in his seat. Jules must have been moving up in the world, if this was where her friends lived now.

  “Long way from Belle Glade Camp,” he muttered nervously as the lights of the underground garage flickered to life ahead.

  The parking lot was both larger and emptier than Elijah had anticipated. Then again, Florida in the summer meant the whole country descended on their beaches and everyone local migrated north to escape them.

  Jules veered into an empty spot between two stone pillars and braked flat across the dividing white lines.

  She’d been quiet for the duration of the drive and Elijah hadn’t pressed her because he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Yet now that she was pulling the keys from the ignition and shoving open the door, apprehension simmered to the surface of his skin.

  “You know you don’t have to do this, right? I appreciate it, obviously, but, um. I’m fine on my own, you know, always have been…”

  There was an elevator at the far end of the garage. Its doors opened when Jules hit the call button. Wordlessly, she gestured Elijah into the cabin.

  He dragged his feet.

  “Look, I shouldn’t be here,” he insisted, breaths knifing in and out of his chest.

  The inner surface of the doors was sleek and reflective, shiny silver mirroring his unkempt, straw-yellow hair and two-week old beard. Chagrin crept up on him as he took in the ripped T-shirt under disheveled raincoat, the safety pins holding up his tattered jeans.

  With Jules beside him, they could have been a ‘before and after’ picture.

  She took no notice of his discomfort, which was at least familiar. The place they came from neutralized compassion in infancy. Jules’ chosen career had done the rest. And it wasn’t as if Elijah didn’t know what he was getting into. They’d helped each other out before. This was just payback, just making up for that first year at County.

  “You could at least tell me what you’re up to these days,” Elijah muttered under his breath. “Or is it top secret?”

  Jules folded her mouth into a thin line.

  Her silence stung worse than any crack about his so-called choices, his long-forgotten drug habit. Elijah bristled. “What, you don’t trust me?”

  The numbers on the elevator display kept climbing in discreet, digital print.

  “SVR’s up to their old tricks again,” Jules said, clipped.

  “Russia? I thought the Cold War was over…”

  She shrugged. “Could be faulty intelligence,” she allowed.

  “You don’t believe that.” You wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.

  It was more than an educated guess. Elijah had spent years acclimating to Jules’ shifting moods. He knew what she looked like when she was worried. All the behavioral dissimulation in the world couldn’t mislead him.

  It was in no way reassuring.

  “Section seems to think there’s something to it,” Jules replied. “You’ll help me figure out if they’re jumping at shadows.”

  Elijah’s stomach dropped to his knees. Blaming it on the elevator gliding to a smooth stop didn’t stop him reaching for her arm. “Wait, I can’t—”

  A door right across the hall gaped open as the elevator cabin unsealed. The number 513 gleamed in gilt and mahogany by the apartment door, a stray detail Elijah knew he’d have a hard time scraping from his memory later.

  He removed his hand from Jules’ arm, instantly abashed. The man who stood in the doorway took one look at them and opened his door a fraction of an inch wider.

  “Inside,” Jules said, short.

  Some stupid taunt about not being dressed for the occasion rose to Elijah’s lips, only to die a swift death once he entered the apartment.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows drew the eye toward the back of the room, where an ashy sliver of Dodge Island was just about visible over the leafy palm trees fluttering gently in the ocean breeze. The sky was an inky backdrop for two other towers across the street, each one glittering with countless lights.

  Elijah hesitated on the threshold of the front room. Wall-to-wall white carpet meant easy footprints. His boot soles weren’t the cleanest. Unsurprisingly, back alleys and highway underpasses didn’t exactly teem with shoe-shiners.

  “This is Nate,” Jules told him. “Nate, this is the hacker I was telling you about.”

  Elijah whirled around. What? “I’m not— It’s been seven years.” Of not touching a computer keyboard, let alone dabbling in the less than legal practices that once upon a time had made him invaluable to Jules. Any competence he might have had was obsolete by now.

  “We’ll get you up to speed,” Nate replied, holding out a hand. His palm was very pale, fingers long and nails neatly trimmed. The rest of him followed that trend as well.

  Heat rising to his face, Elijah placed his hand in his. He had to curb the impulse to shout, Quick, get thee to a Purell dispenser!

  “I’ll check in tomorrow night,” Jules went on, oblivious to his discomfort. “Do you need anything?”

  Elijah thought of his meager possessions, the garbage bag he’d taken to carting around in case he found gloves or boots in the dumpsters he usually excavated.

  He shook his head.

  Jules seemed satisfied with his answer if her pursed lips were any indication. Elijah couldn’t imagine her digging through trash, even for his sake.

  “Keep him out of trouble,” she told Nate. “And thanks for doing this on short notice. You’re a pal.”

  “Sure.” The smile Nate shot her was soft and lingering, his cheeks dimpling handsomely.

  He had the kind of face that stopped women in their tracks even when he was brooding. A smile made him appear even younger than he already did.

  He belonged on a billboard selling overpriced shoes or cologne or something.

  Elijah didn’t realize he was staring until the door clicked shut in Jules’ wake.

  “Okay, there’s gotta be some mistake. I’m really not important. I, uh, I don’t know what Jules told you, but I-I can’t help with whatever it is you’re up to.” And I don’t want to find out what that is. He’d paid his dues, served his time.

  Seven years for manslaughter had cured him of any penchant for adrenaline rushes and law-breaking.

  “Jules said you needed help,” Nate remarked in a voice like Prince William’s. “That’s what this is. You don’t have to worry about anything else. Honestly.”

  If the nice digs and the starched white shirt didn’t give it away, that little platitude erased any suspicion Elijah might’ve had about Nate’s familiarity with living on the streets. There was no such thing as not worrying where Elijah came from—namely the defunct building sites between turnpike and Home Depot in Westwood Lakes.

  He kept the thought to himself.

  Nate couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred-fifty pounds, but that sharply tailored shirt might have been misleading. When he stuck his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, his sleeves bulged with muscle.

  His host wasn’t just a pencil-pusher. He might even know a thing or two about how to put a man on his knees.

  “So… Do you want something to eat?”

  It was an innocuous question and yet E
lijah registered it as the closest thing to a slur.

  “You don’t have to babysit me. I can just…” Elijah gestured vaguely to the door. “You can tell Jules I ran out on you or something.”

  Nate arched an inky eyebrow. “How long have you known Jules?”

  “Why?”

  “I only met her a year ago,” Nate confessed with a crooked smile, “but I feel safe assuming a lie like that is not something she’d simply let slide. Look,” he added, dragging a hand through fine, jet-black hair. “She obviously wants to help. And you seem like you could use some.”

  Elijah pressed a hand to his chest. “Ouch.”

  “You know what I mean. I promise you there’s nothing untoward afoot.”

  “Scout’s honor?”

  Nate obligingly crossed his heart. “So… Dinner?”

  Without a watch or any appointments to keep, Elijah had long lost the habit of keeping track of time. Empty streets and softly glowing streetlights were all the information he needed to intuit that it was too late for supper, too early for breakfast.

  Nate must have been offering out of pity.

  “Yeah, okay.” Elijah wasn’t above accepting charity. He’d learned to bend before irresistible forces and take what he was given—even meat-surprise suppers back at County. “Could I… Could I wash up first?”

  “Of course. Bathroom’s through there…” Nate directed him with a hand, exuding hospitality.

  Didn’t he realize the danger he was in? Elijah’s roster of crimes had never included thievery, but that didn’t mean a subheading couldn’t be added for necessity’s sake.

  The bathroom spotlights flicked on with a pale glow, casting shadows onto the bare, blue tile wall of the door-less shower cubicle. Elijah considered stripping off and making the most of the amenities, but he had nothing to change into and the thought of putting his rags back on when he could scent the difference between their stink and the ocean-fresh smell of shower gel stopped him short.

  I won’t be here that long.

  The man staring at him from the mirror over the sink was hollow-eyed and ashen, shaggy blond hair drooping down the sides of his face. Somehow it had escaped Elijah that in the weeks since leaving the shelter he’d acquired a proper beard. There weren’t many mirrors to stare into on the street, and nothing he could do to groom himself if he did happen to catch his reflection somewhere.

  Hastily, Elijah switched on the sink tap when he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Water came gushing out in a warm torrent, no maroon rust to clog the ancient plumbing. No need to wait for the boiler to gear up, no clanging of pipes to let him know the house was in no mood to cooperate. The rushing spray drowned out the skip-race roar of his pulse. The heat was a relief on aching joints.

  Elijah buried his shame as deeply as he could and took to scrubbing the dirt from his hands.

  The smell of sizzling bacon snared him as soon as he opened the bathroom door.

  “Didn’t have anything else,” Nate shot over his shoulder. “Hope breakfast food is okay.”

  The kitchen opened onto the living room, with a small island serving both as counter and bar. Nate stood on the far side, an apron hung from his neck and knotted neatly over the small of his back.

  “Yeah…it’s fine,” Elijah replied, senses ensnared. His stomach gave an embarrassing rumble.

  He’d smelled home-cooked food a lot since prison. Restaurant back doors were often left open to let out the heat. Windows too high up to be climbed sometimes offered a glimpse into the lives of normal folks, who could afford normal, regular meals.

  It was nothing like venturing to a soup kitchen, where everything was always just slightly sour and the faces that surrounded him were hostile, wary, protective of their half-filled bowls.

  Nate nodded to one of the bar stools by the island. “Have a seat. It’ll be done in a minute.”

  Obedience had been drilled into Elijah by men twice as broad as Nate wielding nightsticks and Tasers. It wasn’t easily forgotten. Still, he lingered, wishing he had a towel or something to lay over the orange leather upholstery.

  “Can I help with anything?” The answer, he guessed, was no.

  No one sane would trust him with kitchen utensils—many of which were sharp and easily repurposed into a white weapon.

  Nate spoke without turning. “I’m almost done. There’s coffee if you want.”

  At this hour? Elijah bit back the query for fear that the offer might be retracted. He found mugs on the shelf above the machine—two of them emblazoned with red double-decker buses, another with an iconic blue police box. In case the accent didn’t give it away, Nate seemed determined to wear his Britishness on his sleeve.

  “Eighteen years,” Elijah murmured. His hand shook around the plastic handle of the glass coffeepot. He clutched it tighter in his shivering fingers for fear of spilling its contents all over the counter.

  “Hmm?”

  “You asked how long I’ve known Jules. We, uh, grew up together.”

  “Did you really?” Nate seemed surprised. No wonder—Jules had her life in order, her nails trimmed, ambitions clearly defined.

  She would never end up on the streets, let alone in prison. She was smarter than that.

  “Really.” Elijah doused his burgeoning sneer in tepid coffee.

  Nate scrutinized him for such a long moment that Elijah wondered if he was trying to puzzle out how old Elijah was under all that hair—or perhaps what bad choices had led him to shamble down the boardwalk like a cautionary tale. But Nate didn’t ask. He went back to the pan and flipped the bacon over one last time. He plated their food with a deft hand, layering scrambled eggs and crispy strips of still-sizzling bacon onto two square plates.

  Elijah’s stomach churned over the wait. The urge to leap and devour the fare with his fingers shot through him like a bolt of electricity. He couldn’t remember not being hungry, though prison had set him up with a steady regimen of food, and exercise, and sleepless nights.

  Two out of three’s not so bad. I’m seventy percent well-adjusted.

  It was the other thirty that explained why his hand trembled as he picked up the fork, why he made a vaguely embarrassing sound low in his throat when he tasted the eggs.

  He didn’t notice he’d let his eyes droop shut until he opened them to find Nate grinning from across the kitchen island.

  “Take it you approve of my cooking?”

  “Fuck yeah… I mean, it’s good. Thank you.” It was better than the soggy bread and mystery meatloaf the kitchens churned out in prison. Better than Elijah’s steady diet of Coke and Doritos before that.

  The bacon crackled when he bit into it, spreading salt all over his tongue. He made an effort to chew a couple of times before swallowing.

  “There’s more,” Nate told him softly. His smile was slow to fade as he sipped his coffee.

  Embarrassed, Elijah nodded and dipped his gaze to his plate. He waited for Nate to ask when he’d last eaten, or to pry into his situation. Even the most well-meaning of shelter volunteers seemed to feel entitled to his story, as though collecting their misery was somehow a fair exchange for free food. Yet as their modest supper wound down, Nate kept largely silent.

  Elijah glanced up a few times to find him staring into the middle-distance as he ate. He might have called it ominous, if Nate weren’t so quick to smile whenever their eyes met or try to strike up a conversation about some innocuous detail so as to disguise any awkwardness.

  Despite the starched white shirt and black slacks, his easy smiles gave him a youthful allure. They made him look—well, Elijah wasn’t supposed to be gawping at his host anyway, so he nipped that thought in the bud, before it could open the door to crushing disappointment.

  He offered to do the dishes as soon as Nate pushed away from the table.

  “Oh, there’s no need. I’ve got it.” Another smile, cheeks dimpling handsomely. “By the way, I’ve set some clothes aside for you in the bedroom. The shirt might be a little
tight in the shoulders, but it’s all I had.”

  Elijah’s throat closed up. “I don’t… What?” He didn’t ask what was wrong with what he was already wearing.

  He had a functioning nose. He knew.

  Nate hitched his eyebrows. “I figured you might want to wash your clothes.” He tapped his socked foot to the front-loader beneath the counter.

  It was a kindness, Elijah knew, but his heartbeat throbbed in his ears, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream with an inescapable sense of dread. He locked his limbs to stop himself from fleeing. Nate wasn’t saying he wanted to take his clothes away. He was simply giving him an option.

  Get a grip. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Maybe…I could do it in the morning?” Elijah temporized.

  “Yes, all right.”

  Nate turned his back to him. He was too old to be so naïve. If he worked with Jules, then this was all a setup. A testing ground. Round one of remaking Elijah into someone he wasn’t, someone he hadn’t been for nearly a decade.

  Elijah’s nerves had been frayed before but with his stomach full and caffeine buzzing in his veins, he snapped.

  “I did say I’m not what you think I am,” he blurted out, an echo of what he’d told Nate earlier. “What I used to do for Jules… That’s over. If that’s what she expects from me, you can tell her it’s not going to happen. You might as well send me back.” To prison. To the streets.

  He didn’t know which hell he would prefer, but either one would be better than the paralyzing notion of finding himself in front of a computer, armed with outdated knowledge and Jules’ frustrated sighs in his ear.

  “You can tell her yourself,” Nate said, his tone soft and even.

  “I’m trying to avoid that.”

  A beat passed, the drip of the kitchen tap too loud in the silent apartment, before Nate deigned to turn and offer Elijah his full attention. “What exactly do you think is going to happen here, Elijah?”

  His tireless imagination conjured all sorts of vivid scenarios, one more unsettling than the last, but none so concrete that Elijah considered them plausible. Then again, his fight or flight instincts were a little rusty. He couldn’t trust what seemed likely and what didn’t.