Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,116
and freshened up her own gin and tonic. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly to Janet.
Her friend gathered the thick album to her chest like a shield and strode out, her head held high, a skilled practitioner of the dignified exit.
Veronica sat at a barstool, turned mostly away from Evan. “What’s wrong?”
“What the hell are we doing here? You and I? Do you really care about Andre? Why did you throw me in with him?”
“I beg your pardon.” She seemed to be only a few drinks in, still fresh-faced, though her cheeks were starting to flush with emotion.
“Let’s call it what it is. Andre’s a lost cause. Some people are just broken.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“He convinced me.”
The lines in her neck tensed. “Stern words from a professional assassin.”
“Yes. And you found me. You asked for my help.”
“And you have been helping him. In other ways, right? God, maybe I thought in saving him you could save yourself, too. It’s not just about killing people.”
“No. It’s not. I choose to help people who deserve it, to keep them safe. I eliminate obstacles between me and that goal. Sometimes those obstacles are very dangerous people. And if that’s horrifying to you, feel free to crawl back into whatever luxurious hole you’ve been living in these past sixty-some years.”
“Sixty-two,” she objected, with an amused purse of her lips, though it faded as quickly as it had arisen. “I’d imagine that someone with your background has kept company with a wide spectrum of people. What is it about Andre you find so personally repulsive?”
“What is it about him you find worthwhile?”
“Goddamn it.” She knocked back half her drink, her words only now coming slurred. “You’re so arrogant, Jacob—”
“Jacob?”
She rubbed her forehead, confused. She wore a sleeveless blouse, her arm wobbling beneath it, not toned as Evan had thought but frail, wasted. “It’s easy to have empathy for something we understand. But there’s a spectacular array of suffering out there.” She waved her glass vaguely in his direction. “Not all of it is your flavor. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth your empathy.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know anything about me.”
Her lips were trembling, an uncharacteristic show of anger, of vulnerability. “The hardest part of trying to become an adult is realizing that your suffering doesn’t entitle you to anything.”
“You’re not the person to tell me that.”
“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.” She breathed wetly in the pause. “You don’t realize it until you’re alone and there’s no one there to hear you complain. Just you and, hmm, fate.”
“What are you talking about?”
She set her drink down uncertainly, knocking over one of her orange pill bottles. “You struggle with Andre because he reminds you of your past.”
“No.”
“He reminds you that despite everything you left behind, you’re still the same person you’ve always been.”
“No.”
“We all are,” she said. “We don’t leave anything behind, don’t you understand?”
Evan felt his molars grind. “You’re not hearing me. I’m done with this. I’m done with him.”
“You can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said quietly, “he’s your brother.”
She faced away from him, her hair tumbling down across one eye, the side of her face. It fluttered at intervals with her breaths.
Evan couldn’t register his own breathing or the room or the words he’d just heard. All he sensed was his heartbeat thundering in his ears, a waterfall rush of blood moving through his system, keeping him upright. His flesh felt numb.
It occurred to him that this is what full-blown denial felt like. Groping in the dark, searching for old bearings that no longer existed.
Without knowing it, he’d taken a step back.
The story beneath the words unfurled like a banner, spelling out the trauma writ large.
He relived everything now through a new lens, one that brought all the blurry edges into focus. How vividly Veronica had described the rape of Andre’s mother. She had bruises around her wrists where they’d been held down. And she was wearing the shirt still, torn at the collar where it had been … Broken fingernails from trying to fight back. A clump of hair missing where it had been yanked out. It was brutal. Savage.
Not someone else.
But her.
She took those damn tests every few days, like playing a lottery you don’t want to win. But sure enough, she won. And even though this was a child born of violence, it was still a child. And she decided she wanted to bring this child to term.