After the Golden Age

“You can’t blame your past on them, Celia.”

“Aren’t I the one who said to leave them out of it? How many times do I have to say it: I’ve spent the last eight years trying to make up for one mistake, and the only message I’m getting is, that isn’t possible. Yesterday I was a respectable upstanding citizen, and today, suddenly, I’m dirt. Mark won’t talk to me, the papers brand me a criminal—what the hell happened?”

Analise pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. For a moment Celia thought she was getting through to her, that she wouldn’t lose both her and Mark. Then she said, “How do I know you won’t do something like that again? You don’t get along with your parents any better now than you did then … so how do I not you’re not still like that? That you’re not still working with the Destructor? That you didn’t get put on this case on purpose, that—”

“Analise,” Celia said as calmly as she could. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

Celia realized that nothing she said would help, because no one trusted her. Even Analise, her best friend, suddenly assumed that every word was a lie.

“Yes, it is,” Celia said, for as much good as it would do.

At first Analise hesitated, like she was about to decide that she trusted Celia after all. Then she moved back to the window.

“I need to go think. I’m sorry.” She put her mask on and gripped the dangling rope.

“Analise, don’t you dare run away from me!”

But she was already gone, climbing up the rope, her specially designed gloves gripping despite the wet. A few minutes later, the clouds broke, and the last rays of sunset shone in.

SIXTEEN

THE Trial of the Century, the newspapers called it. Like the Storm of the Century. They seemed to happen every ten or twenty years. The last Trial of the Century had been when she was a little girl, involving a husband- and-wife bank robber team that specialized in hacking ATM machines. They were noteworthy because they would make out in front of the security cameras. The Kissing Crooks. Bank robbery soft core porn. Celia hadn’t been allowed to watch the trial coverage.

The next day, the front page of the city’s so-called respectable newspaper, the Commerce City Banner, featured her picture, snapped by an intrepid photographer as she left the courtroom. A close-up, framed by bodies in dark suits, mostly people from the DA’s office who all left in a crowd; she was the only one with features visible: brick-red hair, short and tousled, eyes squinting a little in the light, looking ahead, lips pulled in a frown. Her mother should have been nearby, but she’d been cropped out of the image. Artistic license or something.

Her story rated a sidebar, so maybe she hadn’t quite graduated from the position of footnote to the Trial of the Century. She wouldn’t mind staying a footnote. “West Heiress’s Dark Past,” read the headline, with a sub- header, “Who is Celia West?” Lots of unanswered questions peppered that article, since the records were sealed and she wasn’t commenting. Some people, including Bronson, had given quotes vowing that they trusted her, for which she was grateful.

But other quotes—from politicians, gossip columnists, college professors whom she barely remembered— observed how reclusive she was, that she was estranged from her parents, that she hadn’t done anything to follow in their footsteps, and what was she hiding, anyway? Those interviews sounded so much more exciting.

A half-dozen reporters were waiting in the lobby of the building where Smith and Kurchanski had its offices. Celia tightened her grip on her attaché and quickened her pace, as if preparing to run a literal gauntlet. Like a pack of jackals, they spotted her and moved across the granite floor to intercept, striding from different directions to trap her. And so, separated from the herd, the gazelle stumbles …

She would have gotten away if she hadn’t had to stop for the elevator.

The reporters swarmed around her.

“Ms. West! Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

“I really don’t have time—”

“Are you working on the Sito trial out of revenge?

The elevator mechanism groaned softly.

“Did you have any contact with the Destructor after those two months you were with him?”

“What exactly was the nature of your relationship with the Destructor?”

Oh, she’d been waiting for that one. The stories people must be making up about that. Ignore them, just ignore them.

“How long did it take for your parents to forgive you?”

They haven’t, she thought.

They kept asking because they knew, eventually, she’d break. It was easy to ignore the difficult, personal, prurient, questions. The one with the easy answer startled her into answering.

A woman with a blond bob and rimless glasses caught her gaze and asked, “What did you do for the Destructor? Malone said you joined him. But what did you do for him?”

Celia smiled bitterly. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything. I was seventeen, I was stupid, I ran away from home, and he took me in and kept me around because it drove my parents crazy.”

Finally, the elevator door opened. She stepped inside and spread her arms across the door, blocking any of them from following her. She wasn’t big or intimidating; they might have just pushed past her. But she glared. “If you could please leave me alone, I’m late for work.”

They blinked, startled for a moment, and hesitated, which gave the doors time to close on them. As the elevator rose, Celia leaned against the wall and sighed.

Mary, the receptionist, caught her as she entered the offices. “Celia? Kurchanski Senior wanted to see you as soon as you came in.”

“Okay.” Did Mary’s smile seem a little stiff? Was her expression fearful?

She went to Kurchanski’s office before taking off her coat or setting down her bag. The door was ajar; she knocked on the frame and carefully pushed it open enough to stick her head in.

“Mr. Kurchanski? It’s Celia. Mary said you wanted to see me.”

“Ms. West, yes, come in.” He was leaning back in his leather desk chair, reading an accounting trade magazine. He set the magazine aside and rested his hands on the desk. “The Sito trial’s been very interesting, hasn’t it?”

That sinking feeling was the other shoe dropping, right down the middle of her gut.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You testified yesterday. I read a transcript.”

She gritted her teeth and waited.

“The District Attorney may not have a problem with you being so personally involved. But I have the firm to think about, and its reputation. This isn’t easy to say, but I’d like you to take some time off. You’re a hard worker and I have a great deal of respect for you. But we’ve already had too many questions.”

Questions like, aren’t you worried, can she be trusted, how could she possibly be a good person with that on her record. It was fine, being the daughter of vigilante heroes. But any association with a notorious criminal mastermind? Forget it. A black mark like that never went away.

He continued. “It would be better for all of us. Until this blows over.”

If she could stay numb, she’d be fine. She always stayed numb until she could walk away and explode in peace. “Sure. I understand. Mr. Kurchanski?”

“Yes?”

“Am I being fired, or just … laid off?”

“You’re taking a leave of absence. Until this blows over.”

And if it didn’t? Would she get a call asking her not to come back, ever? “Until this blows over. If it blows over.”

“I’m sorry.”