Just One of the Guys(64)

I ask Angela if she’s free for lunch and, at noon, we take our sandwiches down to the park alongside the river, sitting on the very bench where I saw Trevor with Perfect Hayden. He’s one of the many things I need to talk about today.

“So, Ange, how’s it going with Trevor?” I ask, taking a bite of my meatball sub.

“He’s so sweet,” she says. “Really. Such a nice guy. And just so damn cute.”

“Mm,” I say, chewing. “Do you think it might get serious?”

She tips her head to one side and adjusts her glasses. “Well, right now we’re at the ‘just friends’ stage. Honestly, I’m not sure if there’s any real chemistry.”

I choke on a meatball but quickly recover. “Really? No chemistry? With Trevor?”

She grins. “It’s not that he’s not…you know. Delicious. He is. It’s just…well. We’ll see.”

I glug some lemonade, torn between loyalties. Should I mention Perfect Hayden? Should I keep my mouth shut? “You know, he was with someone a long time ago,” I say, hoping for middle ground. “I’m not sure he ever got over her.”

Angela nods. “Hm. Yeah. That’s the thing. He’s perfectly nice and funny and all that, but I get the feeling that he’s phoning it in.”

A shameful sense of satisfaction leaps in my chest, and I give my head a disgusted shake. If he’s phoning it in, it’s because Perfect Hayden is back in town. She who broke his heart. The girl he wanted to marry.

“Any more problems on the Web site?” Angela asks.

“No,” I answer, grateful for the new subject. “But Angela, you know those little Lord of the Rings figures I have on my desk?”

“Sure,” she says, taking a bite of her salad.

“Well, someone’s been messing with them. Last week, they were rearranged kind of strangely. Then this morning, when I came in, Aragorn’s head was missing. Snapped off.”

Angela frowns. “That’s creepy, Chastity.”

“I know it. I feel like I’m being stalked or something.”

“Should you tell the police?” she asks.

I sigh. “I don’t know. The thing is, only staff has keys to the building, right? So I get the feeling that it’s just kind of a mean prank.”

“Who would do that?” Angela says. “Lucia?”

I close my eyes. “She’s the only one who seems to really dislike me. That doesn’t mean she did anything, but still.” We’re both quiet for a minute, the wind rustling through the maple and cherry trees. A teenager blades by, apparently playing hooky. “Listen, Ange, on another subject,” I say awkwardly. “I have to ask you something, just between the two of us.”

“Sure,” she says.

“I have this, um, friend, okay? And I saw her…um…boyfriend with someone else. Should I say something?” I wince. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but if one of my friends knew something about my boyfriend…Crap. I don’t know. Probably not, huh?”

“Dear Abby would say you’d just be blamed,” Angela murmurs. “Shoot the messenger and all that.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I guess. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“If it was me, I wouldn’t say anything,” she says.

Upon returning to the office, Angela and I are greeted with a scowl from Lucia, who doesn’t like the fact that Angela and I are friends. “Staff meeting in ten,” she snaps, pecking away on her computer.

I zip over to my desk to check the Web site, just in case it’s been corrupted again. No. It’s clear. And the mood of the office is light. Carl, our fearless photographer, is grinning, and Penelope is laughing on the phone in her office.

“Have you heard?” Alan asks, leaning on my cubicle, smiling broadly. His tooth hardly bothers me these days.

“No. What’s up?” I ask.

“You haven’t heard?” he repeats.

“No.”

“I’ll let Penelope tell you, then,” he says, ambling away. He gives his pants a tug and stops to chat with Angela.

When we’re all settled in the conference room, Penelope sways in, grinning from ear to ear. “This morning, as some of you know,” she says grandly, “there was a fire at the Graystone Apartments.”

I lurch up in my seat. If any one of my family was hurt—why didn’t anyone call me? Is my dad okay? Mattie? Trevor?

“No one was hurt,” Pen says, correctly reading my face. I sag back, my heart rate slowing. Angela pats my hand.

“At any rate,” Pen continues, “our fearless photographer drove to the scene just in time to snap a few shots. Carl? Would you like to do the honors?”

Carl is practically bursting. “Thanks, Pen,” he says. “Ladies and gents, picture number one.” He holds up a dry-mounted color photo about three feet square. I suck in a breath. “That’s an O’Neill, isn’t it, Chastity?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, flushing with pride. “My brother Mark.”

In the photo, Mark’s wearing his gear and yellow helmet, the eye shield pushed up. His face is sooty and serious, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a tabby cat. Behind them, black smoke pours out of a brick apartment building. The cat’s mouth is hanging open, its eyes wide and somehow sightless. It looks dead.