The Reckoning of Noah Shaw Read online

  “Surely you had parents . . .”

  She turns her gaze back to me. “Surely I did, but I don’t remember them.”

  “Maybe it’s not the worst thing,” I say, thinking of my own father. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

  She fixes me with a stare that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “You’ve never been more wrong about anything in your life.”

  The silence stretches out, spiky and oppressive. Then she says, “Mara needs—”

  “You don’t know what she needs,” I snap. “You might be her family, technically, but really you’re just a stranger. You don’t know her, what she’s done or why, and you know even less about me.” I glance out the window; we’re on the FDR, but if the car pulls over I could get a taxi, if I manage not to get hit. Hitchhike, if it comes to it.

  “I know she’s seventeen years old, and that people make stupid decisions when they’re seventeen.”

  “I’m seventeen as well.”

  “Precisely.”

  “You’re not helping your case,” I say. “Mara’s not stupid, or naïve. She made her choice, eyes wide open.”

  M tilts her head to one side. “If you spend your life in a house with no windows and no doors, if you’ve never seen a tree reaching for the sky, or felt grass under your feet, or heard a bird’s wings beat the air, your eyes might be open, but how much can you see?” She pauses. “I was told, once, that killing myself could save her. Prevent her death. But when she was born and I looked in her eyes, I knew that it would change nothing. That I’d been lied to, by someone who built a house with no doors or windows around me, someone who told me the sky was red and grass is poisonous. I almost died believing it,” she says. “I almost killed myself because he told me to.”

  “Mara wouldn’t.” The words come immediately. “She wouldn’t kill herself.”

  “Would you bet her life on it?” she asks, just as quickly.

  My stomach clenches with nausea. I turn away to hide it, but my limbs grow heavy with the memory of Mara’s weight in my arms, the ghost of her lips at my neck as she thanked me for stopping her heart.

  She made that choice with her eyes open, too. Her life for Daniel’s, when my father forced her to choose. And I agreed to it. I’ll never not loathe myself for agreeing to it.

  But at least I respected her freedom to make a choice that I hated, loathed, rebelled against with every cell in my body. Mara swore, before she left me, that she’d never grant me that freedom. She’d end a thousand lives to save my useless one, no matter what I want.

  The car stops in traffic and I reach for the door handle. “It’s Mara’s choice,” I say, my voice low and cold. “Her life. She can live it as she chooses. With whomever she chooses,” I add, unlocking the door. If that’s the professor, so be it.

  “Your abilities are gone,” M says quickly. “I can help you get them back.”

  “Not interested.” I step out onto the pavement, not caring about the cars. Not caring how she knows, about my ability and the lack of it.

  M’s tone shifts into something sharper. “The life I have now began when I was taken. Your family owes me a debt.”

  “Let me know where to send the cheque.”

  “All right,” M says, her voice clipped but louder, now, to rise above the noise of New York at night. “I’ll keep your friend Alastair in my thoughts.”

  The words catch me just as I’m about to close the car door on her. My fingers tighten on the steel frame, and I lean down to meet her eyes. “What?”

  “He’s in the hospital, isn’t he?”

  A car honks insistently behind us, which sets the other cars off. I don’t give a single fuck. “How do you know?”

  “Your other friend attempted suicide. It was all over the news.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “That’s true,” she says.

  I don’t like the way she says it.

  “There’s been a rash of them lately, hasn’t there been?” She holds my gaze. “Teen suicides?”

  I’m supposed to ask what she knows about it. To ask her for answers. Let her drive me in the direction of her choice. She’s waiting for me to say the words.

  I could. I could get back in the car, follow her to England, turn out the pockets of my memories or my mother’s memories or whoever’s memories and offer her whatever shakes out. Or I could slam the door behind me and walk away.

  I shut the door. I don’t look back.

  3

  UNDERSTOOD BACKWARDS

  IT’S ONLY ONCE THE TAXI arrives at Mount Sinai that I realise my wallet and phone are missing, and only after the driver grudgingly lets me go without paying that I remember Goose isn’t even at the hospital anymore. Jamie had said he checked out—yesterday, was it? Time feels elastic. Warped.

  Which is why I’m brought up short by the sight of Goose in the hospital lobby, chatting with a blonde in a tan pantsuit.

  “Goose!” I shout, turning a few heads.

  A broad grin appears on his lips when he spots me, and he takes his leave of the blonde.

  “Mate,” he says, pulling me in for a one-armed hug. “What are you doing here?” we both say at once.

  “I thought you checked out?” I ask first.

  “Tried to. A doctor came in at the last minute, though, said I’d be leaving ‘against medical advice.’ Wanted me overnight for more tests.” He shrugs.

  “You all right?” I ask, leaning in a bit to look at his eyes. His pupils are blown.

  “Smashing,” he says brightly. I can’t help but think of what M said, though. Keeping Goose in her thoughts. Did she know something? Was it a threat, maybe?

  “What did they see, on the tests?” I ask him.

  Goose sighs, adding an eye roll. “A teensy little skull fracture. I fainted after your friend . . .”

  After Stella dove off the Manhattan Bridge, neither of us says. An image of her shoe floating in the East River surfaces in my mind.

  “Apparently I’ve got an extraordinarily hard head—didn’t even need staples. It’s hardly even sore.” He reaches around to feel the back of his head. “They gave me splendid drugs, though.” He sticks his other hand in his pocket, rattling a bottle of pills. “Not that I’ll need them, now that you’re here, right? Or is that not how it works?”

  About that. “About that . . .” I start. The words drift in the air as I realise I’ve no idea how to finish that sentence. “Did Jamie mention anything before he left?” Better off changing the subject.

  Goose shakes his head. “Just that he was heading to his aunt’s, that your flat would be mad what with . . . what happened . . .” He shifts uncomfortably. “He mentioned that Daniel and Leo and Sophie were being questioned, I think? Said I ought to check into a hotel before heading home.”

  “Home?” The word feels loaded, now.

  Goose shrugs one shoulder. “Guess he assumed I’d head back to London? Oh! He said something about Mara’s dad—or mum, maybe?—being a solicitor?”

  “Dad,” I say. Marcus Dyer’s a criminal defence lawyer.

  “Right. He gave me his number in case the police wanted a chat.” Goose looks over his shoulder, toward the lift. “Have you heard anything?” he asks in a low voice. “About what happened?”

  I follow his gaze. Two police officers are talking whilst waiting for the doors to open.

  There are a thousand reasons for them to be there, of course, reasons that have nothing to do with me or Stella or any of us. “No,” I say. “It’s been . . . an odd day.” My eyes drift from the police to the lobby’s other occupants. The woman Goose had been talking to is standing in my line of sight, texting.

  “Who is that?” I ask, tipping my head toward her.

  “Mmm . . . Mandy, maybe?” He presses his forefinger to his lip. “Mattie? Something like that. Works for the hospital, I think. The nurse who brought me down here was called away, so she came to let me know the car was here to pick me up.”

  Thank
fuck. “Brilliant. Where are you staying?”

  Goose looks puzzled.

  “Where’s the car dropping you off?”

  He cocks his head to one side. “I thought you’d sent for it?”

  I shake my head once, then look at the large windows facing the street. Three cars are waiting by the curb in the dark. Two are black.

  “Maybe Jamie called it,” he suggests. “Or Mara?”

  “Doubtful.” I look back over at the woman Goose had been talking to. Her phone is at her ear, now, and she’s approaching the lift.

  “We ought to go,” I say, feeling slightly paranoid and greatly annoyed about it.

  “Right,” Goose says. Then, “Where?”

  Fair question. “I’ve lost my mobile and wallet, I think,” I say. “You’ve got yours?”

  “Wallet, no mobile,” he says. “Might’ve dropped it on the bridge.”

  Bloody hell. “You all right to walk?”

  “Of course, but we could just take the car, no?”

  “Rather not,” I say, after a moment. We’ve barely made it out of doors, though, before Goose trips. I catch his arm. “Careful, mate.”

  “I’m fine,” he insists. “Look.” He points to his left shoe—his laces are undone.

  “Mr. Greaves?” a voice asks in an Eastern European accent. We both look up. An older man is holding open the door of one of the black cars.

  “Well spotted,” Goose says to the driver, who doesn’t smile.

  “What car service are you with?” I ask.

  “Eastern,” he says. He points to a small placard in the front window.

  At least it’s a real car service, one I’ve heard of. “Where are you headed?”

  “Teterboro.”

  I exhale through my nose. “Well done, M,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Pardon?” Goose asks.

  “We’re being herded, I think.”

  “Herded . . . where?”

  “England,” I say.

  “Could do.” Goose nods amiably, until he notices my expression. “Unless you’ve got something else in mind?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Are we waiting on Jamie or Mara to join us?” he asks slowly.

  I shake my head once.

  “Right, then,” he says. “Is there some other reason we should look this gift horse in the mouth?”

  I’m not used to being cautious, but I feel responsible for Goose. “Chalk it up to past experience,” is all I say.

  “Fair, I suppose.” Goose bites his lower lip. “What are you worried about, though, exactly? Think there’ll be a gingerbread cottage at the other end of the flight?”

  “It’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility,” I say.

  “It’s only England, mate. Not the edge of the world. Why not go until things die down, here?”

  “Unfortunate choice of words,” I say.

  “Perhaps. But look.” He points to the car. “It’s a Honda Civic. People don’t get kidnapped in Hondas.” The driver looks on, unsmiling.

  I can’t help my grin. “All right, you’ve made your point.”

  “Marvellous,” he says, climbing in. He pats the seat beside him. “See? No bloodstains or anything.” Once I’m in, he leans his head back, closing his eyes as the car starts.

  “Are you allowed to sleep with a concussion?” I ask.

  “They encourage it, actually. Says it helps the brain heal.” He lets out a contented sigh. “Wake me up when we get there.” Within minutes, he’s unconscious.

  I can’t remember when I last slept. The night before last, maybe? I let my eyes close on the blink.

  An afterimage of Mara’s face appears in darkness, after kissing me awake in the middle of the night. My hands ache with the memory of her heat, her softness.

  Fuck. We’ve barely started the trip, but I can’t stand the stillness.

  “How much longer?” I ask the driver, after a few more minutes.

  “Twenty minutes,” he says. “No traffic.”

  I run my hands through my hair, crackling and restless as I watch the clock. I nearly leap out of the car once it comes to a stop.

  I give Goose a shake. “We’re here.”

  He yawns. “Pip pip,” he says groggily, before letting himself out.

  “Mr. Shaw?” the driver asks through his open window. I haven’t mentioned my name once. He hasn’t asked.

  “Yes?”

  He nods once, gruffly, and offers me a plain white envelope with no name on it, no address.

  “What’s this?”

  “This for you,” he says, extending his arm farther out of the car.

  I take it. He drives off that same second, leaving Goose and me to stare at the planes lined up.

  “Which plane’s ours?” Goose asks beside me.

  “Don’t know,” I say.

  “Maybe it’s in there?” He tips his head at the envelope. I open it.

  Go slay the dragon, and save your girl.

  x M

  4

  SMILING VANITY

  ANY HINTS IN THERE?” GOOSE asks.

  “Not as such, no.” I fold the note back up and pocket it. The sound of heeled footsteps approaches, and a cheerful crew member introduces herself as Madison, before leading us to a plane Goose is damn near giddy about. She offers him a tour before we take off, and I settle into one of the white leather seats.

  A second flight attendant appears, offers me a drink.

  “What’ve you got?”

  She tips her close-cropped head at a glossy bar at the far end of the cabin. “Everything.”

  “Whiskey, then. Neat.”

  “I’ll have what he’s having.” Goose reappears, sinks into the seat opposite me. “Quite something, I must say.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Doesn’t your family have a plane?”

  “We’re only Embraer rich, not Gulfstream rich.” He takes a sip from my glass. “Mmm.”

  “My theory is that the size of one’s private jet is inversely proportional to the size of one’s cock,” I say, unimpressed.

  “Interesting,” Goose says, setting his glass down on the side table. He presses a button by his seat, and a head pops out from the galley.

  “Is there something I can get for you?” the attendant asks Goose.

  “There is, in fact, Jessa. Do you happen to know whose plane this is?”

  She flashes a smile. “This is the newest member of EIC’s fleet.”

  “Thanks ever so.”

  “Anytime.”

  Goose raises his glass, pretending to examine the amber liquid in the glow of the reading light. “EIC,” he says slowly. “That would make this your plane, wouldn’t it?” He lifts the glass to his grinning mouth.

  I nod slowly. “Walked right into that,” I say.

  “Without so much as a setup. A thing of beauty.” He clinks his glass with mine. “To your plane, and your cock.”

  I wake up just as the wheels touch the ground. My head throbs and my mouth is dry and bitter.

  “Goose,” I say, and he startles awake.

  “Shite, was I out the whole flight?”

  “Think so.”

  “You?”

  I nod, a bit wary. I never sleep on flights.

  “Good morning,” one of the flight attendants says. Jessa, was it?

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “About noon. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” Goose says, just as I say, “Not really.”

  “I can have something prepared for you if you like, before you deplane?”

  I look out the window, expecting to see London City Airport, but this isn’t it. “Where are we?”

  “Darlington.”

  “Darlington?” Goose repeats.

  Jessa nods. “Your driver is already here and waiting to take you to the house.”

  Goose looks at me quizzically. “What house?”

  “Noah.” The crew member who gave Goose the tour last night appears from the
rear of the plane. “I have Victoria Gao on the line for you.”

  “Who?” Goose asks me.

  The last time I heard from my father’s solicitor was at his funeral, I think, when she handed me my inheritance. Her assistant has helped sort out a few things since then, but that’s all. “Back in a sec,” I say to Goose.

  Madison hands me the phone, then excuses herself wordlessly. “Hello?”

  “Next time you decide to take one of the planes, I’d appreciate at least a day’s notice,” Ms. Gao says. My memory of her is one of elegance, composure. She sounds surprisingly put out.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” I say, glancing at the exit door. “Trip came together at the last minute.”

  “Well. At least you’re all right,” she says.

  Odd thing for her to say, isn’t it? “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No one’s heard from you in days. I’ve left several messages, texts, and emails,” she says.

  “I left my mobile in New York,” I say slowly. “Wallet, too.”

  “I’ll send someone over to check the flat,” she replies, matter-of-fact.

  “You have keys?”

  “It would’ve been rather difficult to move your furniture in without them,” she says. She has a point, but the thought is mildly unsettling anyway. “As I said, I’ll send someone to check the loft, and have your things sent to you if they’re found.”

  “Sent where?” I ask.

  “The manor,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Your grandparents will be relieved to have you there, I’m sure.”

  “It hasn’t been that long since I’ve called,” I say.

  “Things are a bit sticky in New York, at the moment. Better you’re in England just now, and out of the press.”

  “Sticky?” Her tone gets my back up. “A girl died, another’s on life support in hospital.”

  “Felicity Melrose is on camera having set fire to company property. You’re a minor still, in America. There’s no evidence that you even knew her.”