maybe she’d be okay. Halfway through her junior year, she’d called him, to let him know she was doing okay. He’d said he was glad, and didn’t ask her to come home, didn’t put any pressure on her. Just said he was glad.
Now, he caught her gaze and smiled a wry half smile, as much as he ever smiled, which meant he was as happy to be here as he was ever happy about anything. Her own smile broke wide and unbidden.
Beside him walked Robbie Denton, his wind-burned face grinning. And beside him, arm in arm, walked her parents.
Oh God, they were all here. They’d all made it.
She couldn’t help it. As soon as they were within reach, she lunged forward and hugged her mother.
“Thank you, thank you for coming.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it. Oh, Celia, we’re so proud of you.”
Warren pressed his lips into something that tried to look like a smile. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. She repressed a wince.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice muted. “You almost didn’t make it this far. I’m glad you did.”
It was as much an admission of approval as she was likely to get from him. He made no move to embrace her.
Suzanne kept her arm around her. “Come on, let’s go get some lunch.”
Robbie tousled her hair like he’d been doing since she was a kid. For a long stretch of time during her teenage years, it had annoyed her into screaming fits, which made Robbie tease her more. But now she laughed.
Arthur Mentis offered his hand. She shook it calmly.
He said, “I always knew you’d turn out all right.”
Which nearly made her cry.
When she emerged back into the asylum lobby, the orderly was talking on the phone. He glanced at her, his gaze dark and suspicious.
“Never mind, she’s back,” he said, and hung up.
Celia didn’t wait around for explanations, either his or hers. She flashed him a smile and strolled back into the street.
Michael, bless him, was still waiting with the car. She piled into the front seat.
“Now you’re going to say you don’t want me telling your parents you were here,” he said, starting the engine and preparing to pull into traffic.
“That would just worry them, don’t you think?”
“Just tell me you know what you’re doing.”
She hesitated, which made him glare at her.
“Sure,” she said. What the hell? “I know what I’m doing.”
“I suppose you’re at least making your own trouble now instead of getting wrapped up in somebody else’s.” That was a kind observation. “We’re going back to the Plaza now, right?”
“Yes. Thank you, Michael.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE penthouse was still deserted. “Mom? Dad?” she called out. No answer. They’d been gone all day. The gauze bandage covering her stitches itched, and she felt a raw, gnawing anxiety.
She went to the Olympiad command room. There, she found Robbie—the Bullet, actually, in uniform sans mask—at the communications station, listening to police radio.
“Hey! I thought you’d be in bed asleep,” he said.
“I had work to do.” He gave her a reprimanding glance. If he offered her hot cocoa, so help her God— “Where is everyone?”
“Your dad’s at the courthouse. The jury’s taking forever, which has the good Captain worried. Spark’s trying to meet with the police chief about coordinating some kind of patrol for the city tonight, but I don’t think she’s having any luck.”
“How’s it look out there?”
He shook his head. “It’s like the whole city’s holding its breath. Something’s going to happen but no one knows what. Only thing on the radio is car accidents—people are twitchy, rear-ending each other. I can’t find the independent supers; they’ve all gone to ground, I think. Waiting.”
“Has Dr. Mentis been back?”
Robbie shook his head. “Haven’t seen him all day. Why?”
“He—” She shook her head. She was worried. She needed to see him. Robbie didn’t need to know all that.
“I’d love to know what he found out about Mayor Paulson.”
She just bet he would. Arthur ought to be here, and her stomach flipped a little. The Olympiad was in action, and he’d disappeared.
“Have you called his office?” she said.
“If he’s there, he’s not answering.”
“That’s not like him.”
“Hey, if he’s in trouble, he’ll find a way to let us know.”
He’d speak to their minds across the distance. For his closest friends, space wasn’t a barrier for the connection.
Would there come a time when he refused to ask for help?
“I’ll see you later,” she said, turning to leave.
“You’re not going out, are you? I don’t think your folks—”
“I won’t leave the building, I promise.”
“Celia, you’re still hurt. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine. I’ve got my cell phone. I’ll call you if I need help, I promise.”
She left before he could say anything else.
She rode the elevator down to the eighteenth floor.
In the heart of the building, the office spaces were efficient and elegant. Gray berber carpeting led down hallways with recessed lighting. Silk plants in brass stands decorated corners. The Plaza hired staff just to keep those plants dusted. Accounting firms, law firms, investment firms, insurance companies—all had offices here, marked by frosted glass fronts with their names painted in neat black letters. Originally, Celia’s chief interest in working for Smith and Kurchanski had been that their offices weren’t located in West Plaza.
Dr. Arthur Mentis’s office was marked only by a brass nameplate on a wood-stained door at the end of a hallway. Not a prime location, but he didn’t need much space. He wanted to work here so he’d be close to the Olympiad’s headquarters. And Warren gave him the place rent-free.
She knocked.
“Arthur? Are you here? Can I come in?” She knocked again. And again. If something had happened to him, she’d have felt it. She knew she would have.
In much the same way, something told her that he had to be here.
“It’s Celia. Will you let me in? Arthur!”
At that, the door opened. He might have been waiting just on the other side, debating about whether or not to open it.
She could see why there might be a debate. He looked awful. Face frowning, hair ruffled, he wore his shirt unbuttoned, baring the undershirt. He leaned on the open door and the frame, holding a bottle of scotch. He didn’t smell of alcohol; he only looked drunk. The bottle was full and unopened. He was showing some kind of emotion— which one, she couldn’t guess.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
