Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,114
card table were dirty, crusted with residue. Evan tore through the crooked cabinet. A cracked mug on its side and a plastic cup with a pub logo. Not a single thing matched in this fucking place; it was as though Andre had designed it to maximally aggravate Evan’s OCD. Evan grabbed the cup, filled it, and held it out to Andre.
Andre knocked it away, spraying droplets across Evan’s face. He tried to push himself up, losing traction in the sheets, and wound up slumped against the wall. “I told you I wanted to call my sponsor.”
“I see. It’s my fault.”
“—left me here for two days with a buncha Benjamins and nowhere to go.”
“People are dying.” Evan was angry, angrier than made sense. “All you had to do is stay here and not screw up.”
“That’s rich coming from you.” Andre threw himself up onto his feet, swaying unevenly. “You got chosen. You did.”
“What does that mean?”
“They were gonna take another kid. Van Sciver and one other kid. That shoulda been me. Me.” Inexplicably, Andre was crying. “But you jumped the line. You got yourself picked. And then they took Van Sciver. And that was it. That was it. The rest of us got left behind. So how come you got to get fixed, huh?” He swung at Evan weakly, a halfhearted fist that struck him in the chest, more imploring than violent. “How come?”
The words came heated and urgent through Evan’s clenched teeth. “I earned it.”
“No. No. You stole it.” Another loose swing connected with Evan’s torso. “I coulda been so much more. I coulda been you. I didn’t get a shot. You shoulda been here instead of me in this shitty room. In this shitty life.”
Andre was sobbing openly now, his contorted face eliciting not empathy from Evan but a deep, heated embarrassment he didn’t understand. The smell of booze and unwashed sheets, the vise grip of the four tight walls, the baleful drawing of Sofia—it all seemed to thicken the air, pressing in on him, compressing his chest, his judgment.
And then the words were pouring out of him. “You had a wife. You had a kid. A normal life. You had everything anyone could’ve wanted. And you threw it all away for what? This?” Evan plucked the empty rum bottle off the floor and shook it in Andre’s face. “How useless do you have to be? How much of a coward?”
Andre’s face hardened. He swung at Evan again, but this time with intent. Evan sidestepped the cross and punched him in the solar plexus, all fleshy gut, careful not to snap a floating rib. Andre barked out a chunk of air, fell to his knees, and vomited on the threadbare carpet. He heaved again, the hot stink of alcohol and bile rising. His lips were open, sucking for air. And then it came, screeching intakes mixed with sobs, his face shiny with tears and mucus and puke.
He dragged himself into the bathroom in shame, kicking the door shut behind him, but it hit the frame and wobbled wide to show him clinging to the toilet, fighting for breath.
Evan lowered his face, his cheeks burning. It was the first time he’d lashed out in anger since his childhood. Jack had taken that part of him and hammered it into an implement he could keep sheathed, a weapon he drew only with great focus and caution and reverence.
He’d betrayed all three.
This mission—from Veronica to Danny to Andre—reached back to that youngest part of Evan. It had found the red-hot center of his vulnerability, the scarred-over wound that made him afraid to hope or belong or have dreams of his own.
He needed to go into the bathroom and set it right.
And yet his feet stayed rooted. His legs didn’t obey.
He glared at Andre. Andre glared back, his chest heaving. “And what the fuck are you?” he said. “Always on the lookout for someone to save. You need it, feed off it. Other people’s weaknesses. It’s the only thing that defines you, ’cuz you don’t have anything else. Deep down you know you’re nothing on your own. Just like me.”
Evan felt his heartbeat fluttering the skin at his temple. His breath stretching his intercostals. The low simmer of rage waiting for an excuse to bubble over.
He thought about what he’d been through, from the Buenos Aires Provincial Police to the Hellfire missile, from Kern Prison to the ambush at the impound lot, from Molleken’s battle lab to the battering he’d taken at Creech