Trust (2 page)

IT WAS A DISTINCT PLEASURE WATCHING this spoiled brat's face dissolve under a crushing wave of pain.
Poor, poor Gaia
, Ella thought.
The truth hurts, doesn't it?

She allowed herself another little smirk. Yes, with those last words, she knew she had delivered a blow far more powerful than any karate technique.

Gaia's focus faltered for an instant, just as Ella knew it would. Almost instantaneously Ella launched a powerful side kick that landed squarely in Gaia's rock-hard solar plexus and knocked the oversized freak off her feet.

Ahh
. That just about did it.

It felt so good to be using skills that had been dormant for so long. When was the last time she'd actually fought someone — and showed her true mettle? Five years ago? Six years? Loki would be so proud if he could see her now. She straightened as Gaia sagged and futilely tried to suck in breath. Ella chuckled. Yes . . . pummeling her foster daughter filled her with a satisfaction she hadn't experienced in far too long. Of course, it was nothing compared to the euphoria of knowing that she had crushed Gaia's will, that she had
destroyed
Gaia — that she had stolen the one heart Gaia prized above all others.

That was the real triumph. And Ella would savor it.

As Gaia slumped against the wallpaper, Ella moved forward, a predator's grin on her face. It was time to end this little dance. But then she hesitated. Gaia was recovering. By now most adversaries would be out cold or begging pathetically for mercy . . . but not this one. Incredibly, Gaia was grunting and forcing herself upright. Ella had to hand it to the girl: She was strong.

“You shouldn't prolong this,” Ella murmured. “You'll only hurt yourself more.”

Gaia blinked, grimacing and clutching her stomach. “You . . . didn't . . . answer my question,” she gasped breathlessly.

Ella laughed. “Oh, yes, I did.”

“I don't believe you. You're lying —”

The front door burst open.

Ella whirled.
George!

Not good. Ella swallowed. How much had her wimp of a so-called husband seen? He stood there for a moment in the open doorway, bundled in his overcoat and scarf, his haggard face twisting in confusion.

A bitter wind swept through the house. Ella remained perfectly rigid.

“Gaia?” George asked, his gaze darting between the two of them. “What's going on?”

“I came home and found that Gaia had skipped school,” Ella stated in a clipped voice. Her answer was firm, authoritative. And it was the truth. Five years of experience in playing this charade with George had taught her that telling the truth (as much as possible, anyway) was always the best course of action. George might be blind to certain matters — like the fact that Ella was only
pretending
to be his wife — but he was surprisingly insightful about others. One didn't work for the CIA for thirty years and not learn how to detect
some
lies.

George closed the door behind him. His rheumy eyes remained fixed on Gaia. “Why aren't you in school?” he asked softly, sniffling from the cold.

“I . . . I . . .” Gaia shot a quick stare at Ella, then scrambled up the stairs.

“Gaia!” George yelled.

But there was no answer. Ella bit her lip to keep from smiling. Gaia could barely make it to the top floor. Judging from the clumsy thumping of her feet, she was practically
dragging
herself up the last flight of stairs. Which meant that Ella had hurt her. And probably scared her, too — despite Loki's ridiculous assertions that Gaia was incapable of being afraid. Which also probably meant that the girl would keep quiet about their little . . . encounter.

“What on earth is going on?” George barked.

Ella shrugged calmly, then crossed the hall and turned on the light. “I have no idea. Like I said, Gaia was here when I got home.”

George exhaled deeply and bowed his head. For a moment Ella almost felt sorry for him. He looked so listless and empty — like an inflatable doll that had sprung a leak. But pity only went so far. It certainly didn't detract from the intoxication of Gaia's defeat.

“We're falling apart,” he muttered. “This house . . . this family isn't working. Nothing is working.”

Ella regarded him closely. His words were true. But maybe she could take advantage of his fragile state. Loki was constantly demanding that she be more of a partner to George, that she play her role with more dedication. Now would be a perfect time to offer George solace. To reach out to him. To be a loving wife. Now would be a perfect time to prove to him that his ridiculous theories about her having an affair were completely unfounded.

And then today's victory would be complete.

She approached him and began unbuttoning his coat.

His head snapped up. “Wha-What are you doing?” he stammered.

“Helping you to relax,” she whispered. “Come on. Get out of this stuff and go into the living room. We'll light a fire.”

“What about Gaia?” he croaked, glancing over her shoulder at the stairwell. “Shouldn't one of us go up there and talk to her —”

“Shhh,” Ella whispered gently, cutting him off in midsentence. “We'll talk to her later. It's too late for her to go back to school today. You need to unwind a little bit. You need to relax. Then we'll talk to Gaia, okay? I promise.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His shoulders sagged.

Good
, Ella thought as she slipped his coat off his shoulders and unwrapped his scarf. He didn't try to stop her. He'd surrendered. The plan was already working. A little wine, a roaring fire, some quiet intimacy . . . soon the day's troubles would melt away.

His coat fell to the floor, but he didn't stoop to pick it up. She reached out and caressed his face.
Yes . . . this is just what you need
. She ran her long, red fingernails through his thinning gray hair. She had no intention of letting him talk to Gaia later, of course — but after she showed George an afternoon he'd never forget, he wouldn't want to. She was sure of it.

GAIA'S EYELIDS FLUTTERED OPEN. AT first she wasn't sure where she was. She was staring into a sea of fuzzy whiteness. There was something hard pressing against her back —

And then she remembered. Ella had pretty much beaten her senseless.

So she must have passed out — the way she always did after a fight. Yup. Well, this was just perfect, wasn't it? She'd keeled over in her own house. (No, not her house; definitely not
her
house — as Ella was so fond of reminding her.) Once more her internal battery pack had run out. She was like the opposite of that little bunny from those commercials, the one that never stopped. She
couldn't
keep going. The exertion of combat had left her utterly drained, the way it always did.

And now she was sprawled on the hallway floor in front of her bedroom. The fuzzy whiteness was the ceiling.

Gaia took a deep breath and sat up, hugging her knees against her chest. She shivered. These old houses never stayed warm enough during the winter.

A dull ache lodged itself in her stomach — and it wasn't because Ella had hit her there. No, it was because she felt so alone . . . more alone than she ever had in the four months since she'd come to New York City. The loneliness was a shroud, a blanket that smothered her. Not only did she hate her foster mother, but her foster mother hated
her
— with a far greater intensity than Gaia had ever suspected. And Gaia had no idea why. It wasn't because she'd skipped school.

Gaia's throat tightened. Her fists clenched. Whoever her foster mother really was, she was powerful. And dangerous. Deadly, in fact. Gaia's breath came hard and fast. Her stomach was clenched and roiling. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. Did Sam know Ella's true identity? Was
that
why he was attracted to her? Because Ella was such a badass? Because she destroyed every life she came in contact with, including the life of her poor, clueless, pitiful husband —

Stop it!
She forced her fists to uncurl. She wouldn't think about Sam. For a moment she sat still, listening for any sounds of George and Ella downstairs. But there was nothing.

Gaia shook her head. Who
was
Ella? The question refused to go away. It gnawed at her relentlessly, torturing her. Where had she come from? Why was she with George? Gaia needed answers. She needed to talk to somebody about this. . . .

Ed. Of course.

She jumped to her feet.

But as quickly as the thought darted into her mind, she realized that talking to Ed was out of the question. She was barely
speaking
to Ed. In fact, she was downright pissed off at him. This very morning he had showed up at her house (uninvited) and made
her
feel guilty because
he
had suddenly decided to start hanging out with Heather Gannis again.

Whatever. There was no point in driving herself crazy about Ed Fargo — not on top of all her other problems. If Ed wanted to hang out with Heather, that was
his
loss.

So who could she talk to?

She loitered for a moment in her bedroom doorway. Her thoughts drew a rapid series of blanks. There was nobody. Absolutely nobody. Ed was fast becoming a stranger. . . . Mary Moss (the only true friend she'd made since she'd arrived in this hellish city) had been murdered at the hands of Skizz's cronies. . . . She didn't have a father or mother. . . . Even her old friend Ivy had fallen out of touch. She was truly isolated. Cut off from everyone and everything —

Wait a second.

Unconsciously her hand dug into the front pocket of her cargo pants. Her fingers brushed against a small card. It was still there. Of course it was; she hadn't washed these pants in over two weeks.

She pulled out the white piece of cardboard and stared down at the ten neatly printed digits. Her uncle's phone number.

Uncle Oliver.

“
We live in a dangerous world,
” he'd told her in the park this past Saturday, when he'd crept up on her — appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast. “
And time is short
.”

At first she'd been angry at his deliberate vagueness, at the creepy way he'd chosen to confront her after having kept himself hidden for so long. But now a thought was dawning on her: Did he somehow know about Ella? Was that the danger he was talking about? It wouldn't be that hard to believe. He seemed to know a lot about Gaia . . . a lot about everything, in fact. Maybe he ran in the same shadowy world as her father had — a world of deception and false identities and secrets only a select few knew. She wouldn't be surprised.

“
This is my contact information. Use it anytime you feel the need
.”

Well, she certainly felt the need now. Her foster mother was a deadly sociopath. There was nowhere Gaia could run. For all intents and purposes, she was trapped in this house. And what if George hadn't come home and interrupted their fight? Would Ella have just finished her off? It was a distinct possibility. Gaia had never come that close to losing. Her very
life
could be in danger. Maybe it always had been in danger.

All of a sudden Gaia was sure that Oliver
did
know about Ella.

Without another moment's hesitation she strode into her bedroom and picked up the phone on her night table, then punched in the numbers. They began with 917.

After one ring there was a click. “Yes?”

Gaia's throat caught. The voice was so much like her father's: deep and resonant, but somehow soothing at the same time. She could hear the muffled sounds of traffic in the background.

“Um . . . Oliver?” she croaked. It was the first time she'd ever said his name out loud. The syllables sounded odd coming from her lips.

“Gaia,” he whispered. “I was hoping you would call.”

She swallowed. Her insides tensed. She had no idea what she was feeling right now — other than lost, adrift in a sea of bewildering emotions. “Can I see you?” she heard herself ask.

“Of course,” he replied. “Let's have dinner Friday night. Meet me at Compagno's. It's a restaurant in Little Italy, on Mulberry Street. Eight o'clock.”

Gaia opened her mouth to say something else, but the line went dead.

She blinked. That was it. She was going to see her uncle. She was going to reach out to this enigmatic man . . . this man who didn't
ask
her if she was free Friday night, this man who simply instructed her what to do, then hung up. His tone hadn't exactly been cold, but still — there was something sort of rude about how he'd handled her call. As if it were business. Not a family matter.

On the other hand, he probably
knew
that she didn't have other plans. He probably knew she was having a crisis. Why else would she have contacted him?

But then, shouldn't he have asked what was wrong? He was her uncle, after all. Her blood . . .

She supposed she could always blow him off.

No. Even as she considered this option, she knew deep down that she didn't have a choice. He was all she had.