Ten minutes later we pull into the boathouse. Students, gathered at the bank, swarm the boat so rapidly that I fear we might tip. As I step onto land, several hands lift me in the air, holding me high over heads. Normally I hate being picked up, but throwing the cox in the water after a bump is part of the tradition. I close my eyes, bracing.
Then I feel myself changing hands. Strong arms wrap around me, then sweep me low to the water so my foot touches the surface in a symbolic gesture before lifting me up once more. I open my eyes, expecting to see Jared, but it is Chris who has rescued me. “We did it,” he whispers, smiling widely, and I notice then the wetness in the corners of his eyes.
“We did it.” I repeat, looking over his shoulders, scanning the crowd for Jared. He is standing back by the boathouse alone, watching the scene. His gaze catches mine and he smiles but his eyes are troubled, faraway, and I know in that moment that the thing that was chasing him these past several weeks was not the race at all.
Later in the evening, we make our way down the Chimney into college for the May Ball. Nick, Andy, and Mark, who have come stag, race ahead, while the other boys linger behind with their dates. As we cross into Chapel Court, my eyes widen. The college has been transformed, the courtyards festooned with enormous marquee tents illuminated brightly from inside, housing musical acts, dance floors, and cafés. From the biggest tent, a washed-up one-hit-wonder band desperately belts out the song that made it famous. Students, clad in tuxedos and evening gowns, mill among kiosks offering food of every possible kind—pad thai, kebabs, ice-cream sundaes. In the staircases there are smaller diversions: a fortuneteller, a massage booth. A crane on the outer edge of the rugby pitch offers bungee jumping. It is carnival and prom all rolled into one; I have never seen anything like it.
“Let’s go!” Mark cries, gesturing toward the far corner of Chapel Court. A play area has been assembled there, with a Velcro wall and moon bounce, two students trying to knock each other off platforms with foam gladiator clubs.
“Don’t get injured!” Chris calls as Mark runs off, Nick and Andy following. “We still have to race tomorrow.” The other boys and their dates disperse among the attractions, leaving just Chris and Caren, Jared and me. We pause for a large group photograph that is being taken from above, then make our way into one of the large tents and find a table. A dance floor occupies the middle of the tent, overflowing with students writhing to a seventies disco song I do not recognize. Jared disappears and returns a few minutes later with drinks, a pink champagne concoction in sugar-rimmed glasses for Caren and me, a beer for Chris. He got himself a beer, too, I note with surprise. I had not expected him to drink with another day of racing yet to go.
The decision to hold the May Ball the night before Bumps ended was a huge source of controversy, the result of a scheduling mistake on the part of some college office. By the time the conflict was discovered, vendors and acts were already booked and there was no way to change the date without losing thousands of pounds. The crew debated whether to attend, especially since we bumped to first place. Trinity Hall, now in second place, would be gunning for us tomorrow and we had everything to lose. But the expensive tickets had been purchased and dates, with new dresses hanging in closets, were not apt to be forgiving. So the boys agreed to go to the ball, and we resigned ourselves to enjoying it a great deal less than we otherwise would have, drinking lightly if at all, and not making it to the survivors’ photo that would be taken in First Court at dawn.
Jared is staring across the tent, brow drawn low, lips pursed. “You okay?” I ask, slipping my hand in his. He does not answer. I kiss his cheek, trying to cajole him from his thoughts. “We did it.”
He shakes his head faintly. “It’s not over. It’ll never be over,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
“What?”
He looks down at me as though just realizing I am there. “Nothing. I was just saying that the race isn’t over yet.”
“Tomorrow it will be,” I say, forcing my voice to sound upbeat.
“Of course,” he replies slowly. His eyes meet mine, then look away. We both know he is not talking about the race. He stands up, pulling his hand from mine. “I need to get some air.” Then he is gone, crossing the tent before I can ask if he wants me to join him.
I slump back in my seat. Annoyance mixes with my concern. It’s the May Ball. We’re the Head of the River. Can’t he be happy, even for a night? I start to turn back toward Chris and Caren, wanting to shake off the heaviness, but they are engaged in a disagreement of their own, their voices low and terse. I stand up, making my way to the bar, shaking off the sense that Jared would disapprove as I order a vodka tonic.
“Hey.” Chris comes up behind me. “I’ll take one of those, too,” he tells the bartender, gesturing to my drink.
I start to protest that he has to row tomorrow, then stop. “Where’s Caren?”
“She, uh, left. Doesn’t understand why I can’t stay up all night shagging tonight.”
I start to laugh, then taking in his somber expression, think better of it. It must be so lonely for the other girls who date the rowers and aren’t part of the Eight, always second to the needs of the crew. “Well it will all be over tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is miserable. The Eight is everything to Chris. Even if we win, he will still be unhappy that it is ending. We carry our drinks back to the empty table. An uncomfortable silence passes between us. It is the first time we have been alone since I started dating Jared.
When did things change, I wonder? My mind eases back to the night of the Tideway. We all seemed so happy and carefree then. We bumped today, went to the Head; we accomplished what we had been working all year to achieve. This should be the happiest night of the year. Instead Chris and I are awkward, and Jared despondent.
I cannot take it. “I’m going outside,” I say before walking quickly from the tent. The air, cooler now, is rich with the smell of damp earth and grass. Through the fabric I can hear “Dancing Queen” and see silhouettes of students moving. I used to be like that, fun-loving and carefree. Tears begin to flow down my cheeks.
“Hey!” Chris catches up to me. He is balancing our drinks in his left hand, reaching out to me with his right. His expression turns serious. “What’s wrong?” I shake my head. “Come here for a second,” he says, leading me to the low wall behind the enormous tent that separates Chapel Court from the playing fields. I remember as if in a dream how he used to protect me, seemed to be able to make everything all right.
He sets one drink down on the wall, then hands the other to me. “Here.” I take a sip, watching as he finishes his in a single swallow. “So what do you think?”
I know he means of our chances of hanging on to the Headship tomorrow. “It could happen,” I reply carefully. So much in a bumps race is left up to fate—who gets a good start, breaks a rigger or an oar.
“I think we can do it,” Chris says but I can hear the doubt beneath his voice. “You okay?” he asks abruptly. I hesitate, startled by the change of topic. Chris is not one to ask, does not dwell on trouble. “I don’t mean to pry but you seemed really upset.”
“I’m fine. Jared…” I hesitate. It is too awkward to discuss with him. “We didn’t fight or anything like that. Sometimes it just gets so…”
“Heavy?” he finishes for me.
I nod. I was going to say complicated but heavy is more accurate. The music changes to Madonna’s “Crazy for You.” I don’t want to talk about heavy things. “Let’s dance.”
If Chris is surprised he gives no indication. I stand up, starting for the tent, but he blocks my way, arms extended. He thinks I meant for us to dance here. Too weary to argue, I step forward, letting myself be enveloped in his strong arms. We sway gently to the music in the narrow space between the wall and the tent. I lean my head against his chest, grateful for the respite from heaviness and worry. Then I look up. Chris lowers his head abruptly, his lips looking for mine.
I
freeze. Then, as he draws me closer, my lips seem to respond on their own, kissing him back. Panic floods my brain. This cannot happen. Good sense taking over, I put my hand on his chest and push away. “Chris, stop.” He comes at me again, a dazed expression on his face. I step back quickly and he stumbles. Looking into his eyes, I understand then why he has been so upset about Jared and me being together. He is not jealous about losing his best friend—he has feelings for me. “Chris, I’m sorry but—”
I realize then that he is not looking at me but over my shoulder.
Turning, my stomach drops. There, standing behind me, is Jared.
Jared stares at us, eyes hollow. I take a step toward him. “It’s not what—” But he turns and disappears through the archway. “Jared, wait!”
I start after him but Chris grabs my arm stopping me. “Jordie, we need to—”
I pull away. “No Chris, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” I run through the arch. “Jared!” I cry. But he is gone, and the only sound is my own voice, echoing in the darkness.
chapter TWENTY-ONE
I WALK QUICKLY DOWN the hospital corridor, glancing at my watch. It’s almost seven, just an hour left to visit. At the door of Sarah’s room, I stop. There is a man in a dark suit standing over her bed. Alarmed, I duck around the door frame, reaching for my gun. Then I step into the room. “Who the hell are—” I begin.
But Sarah, seeing me over the man’s shoulder, smiles. “Jordie!” The man turns and I recognize him as one of the security detail Mo assigned to protect her. I tuck my gun away, feeling foolish. “This is Officer Ryan Giles.” Her cheeks flush slightly. Has she been flirting, I wonder?
I take in the guard, who is fortyish, graying at the temples with a gentle smile. “Nice to meet you,” I manage.
“And you.” He nods. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Be just outside if you need anything.” He directs this last comment at Sarah, a note of protectiveness in his voice.
I move closer, studying Sarah’s face. Most of the tubes have been removed and the bruise around her eye has faded to yellow. Still, she looks paler and more vulnerable than before. “Well he’s very handsome,” I manage, trying to keep my voice light.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, ignoring my comment, her voice low and concerned. “I mean, I thought no one was supposed to see you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, kissing her cheek. “Mo knows I’m alive. I’ve already been to the embassy. How are you feeling, anyway?”
She waves her hand. “I’m perfectly fine.” I study her face, unconvinced. “What did you find out?” she presses.
I hesitate, wondering if I should be talking about Jared’s death now that it is somehow linked to the classified investigation. But Sarah put her life on the line. She’s part of this now. Quickly I tell her about Jared’s research, the possible link to the mob. “That’s absolutely unbelievable,” she says when I have finished.
“I know. And it gets worse: They want me to get Jared’s papers from Chris to see if they contain the information about the bank account that he and Duncan found. And Sebastian thinks that Chris has been keeping his real motives from me, that he could be on the wrong side of all this.”
“What do you think?”
I shrug. “I just can’t believe it. I mean he’s acted a little strange since, well, you know…”
“No, I don’t know,” she replies pointedly. “All you said was that you guys got too close, that you’d tell me the rest later. What happened?” I look away. “Oh no, Jordie! You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”
“I was upset, emotional. It just kind of happened.” I clear my throat.
“How was it?” she asks, eyes twinkling.
“Bad. Good. I don’t know. I mean, physically it was fine, but it was a mistake and I knew that the minute it happened. Setting that aside for a second, Chris was Jared’s best friend. One of us. It doesn’t seem possible that he could betray Jared. Or me.”
Sarah’s brow furrows. She never liked Chris, but it’s still hard for her to believe he could do such a thing. “So what are you going to do?”
“Get the papers, I guess. We need to find that information. Sebastian…” My voice catches as I say his name. “Sebastian thinks…”
But my hesitation is not lost on Sarah. “Sebastian.” She cuts me off, raising an eyebrow. “I know that tone, Jordie.” Because she heard it once before, I think, remembering a conversation ten years ago at one of our Sunday pizza lunches. It was shortly after the Tideway, the day I told her about my getting together with Jared. I tried to play it off as just a hookup, brought on by too much alcohol and adrenaline after a race. But then, as now, she called me on it, made me acknowledge that there was something more. She continues. “What gives? Did you sleep with him too?” Her tone is chiding, nonjudgmental.
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean we kissed, but…” I cannot bring myself to tell her that we were interrupted by the call that she was hospitalized. “And yes, it was good,” I add, before she can ask. “Very good. But I don’t know. I mean, he’s very attractive and I think he likes me. It’s probably just physical.”
“Or you could really have feelings for him.”
“It’s complicated right now. There’s the investigation, all of this business with Chris. Not to mention the fact that he was dating Sophie. We’ll see. Maybe when all of this is over…”
“But when will that be?” She’s right, I realize. Even if we learn what happened to Jared, and find the Albanian fund, there will be more steps, developments. It could take months. “You’ve changed, Jordie. In a good way, I mean. A few months ago, you would have cut and run from anything real. You’re more open now, like you were at college. It’s the first time I’ve seen you like anyone since Jared. But there’s always going to be an excuse to shut a man out. I think you should let it happen.”
“Maybe.”
“Anyway, you should go to my place, grab a shower and some sleep. You look like hell.”
I do not, I remember, have a place of my own. “Thanks. I have to get to Chris’s tonight, but I could do with a shower first.”
“So you’re going to get the papers from him.”
“I think so.” My stomach twists. “I hate lying to him, but what other choice do I have? If Sebastian is wrong about Chris having other motives, then there won’t be anything to find. And if he’s right, well then, Chris is no friend at all. I don’t think we’ll find what we’re looking for, though.”
“Then what?”
Before I can answer, my cell phone vibrates in my bag. “Excuse me,” I say, pulling out the phone and opening it. A text message flashes across the screen: “Meet me ton. at river beneath Embnkmnt Tube stat. at 8.30 D.L.” Duncan. My breath catches. So he got my message after all and he’s here in London. Had he never left or did Vance’s death cause him to come back?
I text back “yes” then close the phone. “Just work,” I say uneasily to Sarah. It is not exactly a lie. “But I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
As I walk down the street to the Tube station, my mind races: Duncan is back. But why did he return and contact me now? It could be a result of Vance’s death, an angry decision that he has nothing more to lose. Is he really going to tell me what I need to know? Originally I wanted to learn what he and Jared were working on at college. But now, with that answer in hand, my questions run so much deeper. Where is the information Jared possessed and what did he do with it before he died? Hopefully with that knowledge we can find the answer to who killed Jared and help stop the Albanians at the same time. It is almost too good to believe.
Twenty minutes later I step out of the Tube station and make my way down the sloping street past the darkened shops to the path that runs along the river’s edge. Close to the water now, the air is dank and clouded by faint mist. I pace back and forth, trying without success to stay calm. What if Duncan doesn’t show? Impulsively I pull the ring box from my bag and slip the ring on my finger, as
if it will bring Jared and his long-buried secrets closer to me. Duncan will be here, a voice seems to say. He has to.
And if I do get the answers I’ve been seeking, what then? An image passes through my mind of a future self I do not recognize, happy and relaxed, all of the ghosts put to rest. England will never be just another assignment, of course. But with the questions behind me, I can focus on helping Sarah, maybe find a life of my own. Sebastian, I think, feeling a surge of warmth as his face appears in my mind. When the mission is over, maybe he and I can be together, despite my guilt about Sophie and everything that has happened.
A train rumbles across the bridge above, startling me from my thoughts. I jump, looking behind me. By the pillar of the bridge, there is a figure, hiding in the shadows.
I inhale sharply. “Duncan?” I call. How long as he been standing there?
“Jordie,” a familiar voice says. But it is not Duncan.
“Chris?” As he steps into view, alarm rises in me. “What are you doing here?”
“I got a message…” he begins, then falters.
He’s lying, I decide instantly. I hadn’t contacted him and Duncan surely meant to meet with me alone. He must have followed me again. Then the pieces of the puzzle start to fit together: Sebastian’s suspicions about Chris’s motives, Chris turning up wherever I am. Could he really be working for the other side?
“You said Duncan,” he presses. “Are you meeting him here? What’s going on?”