The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,28

were was little more than a chemical soup of neurons and nerve endings, that the slightest rearrangement of our brain cells turned us into different people.

I kept my eyes on him the whole way into Buckhead, and if Trey noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. He took off the sunglasses, and in profile I detected the first hint of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. It made him seem oddly vulnerable.

Screwed up, Garrity had said. Jeez, I thought, aren’t we all?

Chapter 14

He thinks in black and white. I hadn’t taken Garrity’s words literally until I saw Trey’s apartment.

It was an open layout, all one room except for the bedrooms. Ebony hardwood floors gleamed darkly, bounded by matte white walls. No artwork marred the bland expanse, not even a clock, and there was little furniture, just an oversize black leather sofa and a low coffee table.

Trey turned on a floor lamp and opened the French doors leading to a wrap-around terrace, letting in the cool smell of night. Beyond him, the Midtown skyline sparkled, like someone had thrown rhinestones at the horizon. We were on the thirty-fifth floor, the streets below us a snaking dazzle of brake lights.

He loosened his tie. “Can I get you anything?”

“A pizza would be nice.”

He got a phone book instead. I ordered a meat lover’s special with extra mushrooms while he changed clothes. He didn’t shut the door to the bedroom, and from what I could see, it was as dichromatic as the rest of the apartment. I heard the closet door open, followed by the scrape of hangers.

Next to his desk, a bookshelf held rows of hardcovers. I ran my finger along the spines, noting a veritable library of neuroscience, cognitive psychology, and behavior modification therapy. A series of triathlon training manuals completed the collection. Not one sentimental novel, not one trashy beach read.

I checked over my shoulder. Trey was still in the bedroom, out of sight. Keeping my eyes on the doorway, I tried the top desk drawer. It slid open easily, revealing another set of neatly labeled folders, another bottle of medicine. Also a bottle of valerian root capsules and a GQ magazine, the Italian style issue. In addition—inexplicably, incongruously—he had a tarot deck. I picked it up, splayed the cards. The Fool grinned at me, his eyes bright as he took the step that would send him tumbling down a cliff.

The phone rang, and I dropped the deck. “Shit!”

I got on hands and knees and snatched at cards. I remembered then my promise—no more snooping—and felt ill. To my relief, Trey picked up the bedroom extension instead of coming back in the living room. His first words were unclear, but then, just as I got the deck back in the drawer, I caught his end of the conversation.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight. I have a guest.”

My fingers itched, and not from nicotine withdrawal. I moved my hand to the phone. I’d done it a thousand times with my last boyfriend—pick up the receiver, press a hand over the mouthpiece, listen for a discreet interval. But then, my last boyfriend hadn’t been some super-elite secret agent likely to kick my ass for snooping on his private calls.

“Yes, that’s her,” Trey said. “The blonde.”

I bit my lip and laid one finger on the receiver.

“No, everything’s fine,” he said. “Goodnight, Gabriella.”

Gabriella. The redhead in the photo. Garrity said she wasn’t connected, but I was willing to bet she was. I’d seen the telltale glitter in Charley’s eyes, and the expression on Trey’s face. And now here she was calling Trey.

But before I could wrap my curiosity around the possibilities, Trey returned. He appeared as silently and suddenly as a ghost, and I froze, hands behind my back, guilty fingers still wrapped around the drawer pull. He’d exchanged the suit for a white t-shirt and black sweatpants and he carried two items—a set of keys in his right hand, his Heckler and Koch in his left. His expression was as blank as a piece of paper.

He walked over, moving closer and closer until he was standing right in front of me. I felt the edge of the desk digging into my back.

“Looking for something?” he said.

I held his gaze. “A pen?”

He cocked his head, and I felt it again, the psychic unzipping, especially when his eyes moved to my mouth.

He reached around me and opened the bottom drawer—it contained a black metal gun case. He placed the handgun inside, the magazine too. Locked that.