The optimism Bella had served with dessert didn’t follow Trevor and Alisa out of the hotel. They spent the early afternoon at a comedy club, but the laughter felt hollow; Alisa remained trapped in a dark, unreachable mood.
“What are you reading?” Trevor finally asked. They were sitting in a quiet café near his apartment, the table between them holding two mugs of orange-infused hot chocolate that had long since stopped steaming. Alisa hadn’t looked up from her phone since they ordered.
“Gossip News,” she murmured, her voice laced with a sharp, cynical edge. “Apparently, Karen Lawrence has a new boyfriend to parade around at the Cheval Blanc Soirée.”
“Lucky guy,” Trevor said sarcastically. “She’s always seemed like a nightmare, especially the way she treats Camila.”
“She was an orphan,” Alisa said, finally looking up, though her eyes were cold. “Both parents were gone by the time she was three. That kind of trauma doesn’t just vanish. She was ‘lucky’ enough to be adopted by Katharine Larson, the Oscar winner, and lived a life of pampered luxury. But Larson died two months ago. Now she’s dating Berk Aslan, that Ottoman Olympic shooter. She always lands on her feet.”
“The tabloids seem to know everything about her,” Trevor noted. “And yet, they still haven’t figured out who Bella’s fiancé is.”
“Not everyone’s world revolves around your Bella, Trevor,” Alisa snapped, her voice trembling with a sudden, indignant heat.
Trevor blinked, taken aback. “Where is this coming from?”
“It’s Bella. It’s always been Bella,” Alisa said, her voice dropping to a jagged whisper. “I still remember the day I beat her for class president. She didn’t even look upset. She just told me that the only reason I studied so relentlessly—desperate to please every teacher and classmate—was because I had no other choice. She said my parents were a dead end, incapable of giving me a real future.”
Alisa’s grip tightened on her phone. “I snapped back, asking her what kind of achievement it was to just exist on her parents’ dime. She didn’t even blink. She just said, ‘Silly girl, status has always been a matter of inheritance. When my ancestors were fighting side by side with King Washington, where were yours?’ After all these years at City Hall, I have to face it: she was right. She’s always been right. She was born into power, she’s marrying a prince, and you… you two still seem so inseparable.”
“Bella and I…” Trevor paused. The truth about his real relationship with Bella was on the tip of his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow it. He looked at her tired eyes and held back. “We’re just friends, Alisa.”
Alisa didn’t even look up. She sat in silence for a moment, her thumb mindlessly scrolling, before she abruptly stood. “I have to go. I have a book that’s overdue at the library.” She began shoving her belongings into her sandy brown flap bag with jagged, hurried motions.
“I’ll walk you to the subway,” Trevor offered quickly, standing up.
“No need,” Alisa said icily. She walked out without looking back, leaving Trevor alone with two cooling hot chocolates and a heavy sense of failure.
Ten minutes later, Trevor was back in his apartment. He tossed a falafel wrap he’d grabbed from the downstairs deli onto the coffee table and flicked on the TV, hoping for a mindless distraction while he waited for a call from Alisa asking him for dinner that he knew deep down wasn’t coming.
He settled on a fantasy series about a towering knight and his eccentric, bald squire. He’d barely watched ten minutes when his phone buzzed. It wasn’t Alisa. It was Randy Karger.
“Trevor? I hope I’m not bothering you,” Randy’s voice sounded frantic. “Do you have any idea what happened to Bran and Will? I’ve tried calling them a dozen times. Five minutes ago, two FIA officers were at my door asking about Bran. They said he and Will were involved in Hector’s disappearance… and something about a terrorist attack.”
Trevor muted the TV. “I’m afraid it’s true, Randy. They’ve both joined a cult called the Sukkal, and they’re actively planning an attack. We need to find Bran, Randy. Fast. Any idea where he’d go?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Randy stammered. “But he mentioned a girlfriend who lives over at the Academy of New Athens.”
“A girlfriend? Did he give you a name?”
“Something like… Shirin? He only brought her up once. Apparently, she was a professor there, but she had to resign. Her father was a senior police official in Persia, held responsible for the violent suppression of the protests. The Persian immigrants here made it impossible for her to stay on campus.”
“I’ll track her down,” Trevor said, his mind already spinning. “Did you mention any of this to the FIA?”
“No,” Randy let out a dry, cynical laugh. “They wouldn’t tell me a damn thing, and they were incredibly rude. I’m not exactly in the mood to do their job for them.”
“Well, thank you for trusting me instead.”
“Listen, Trevor… when you find them, please. Give me a chance to talk to them first. They aren’t terrorists, man. I need to know what drove them to this.”
“I will,” Trevor promised. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.”
Trevor hung up the phone, a heavy silence settling over the room. He realized with a pang of guilt that he hadn’t told Randy the truth—that Will was already dead. Perhaps he would find the words eventually, but for now, the mission came first. He immediately dialed Spion.
“Shirin?” Spion answered on the second ring, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “That would be Professor Tehrani. She taught Persian Art History but resigned two weeks ago under pressure. She’s still staying in the faculty housing at the Academy. I can head over there now.”
“Wait for me,” Trevor said, grabbing his brown down jacket. “I’m coming with you.”
“Sounds like a plan. See you there.”
Trevor ended the call and moved with a new sense of urgency. He put on his down jacket, killed the TV, and snatched the cold falafel from the table to eat on the move. He stepped out of the apartment and into the biting night air, leaving the quiet comfort of his home behind.