Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,39

eye. “Andrew had a tough past. And I guess I wanted him looking forward instead of backward. But what the hell do I know? Maybe we all need to do both.”

“Do you have any way of remembering his friend’s name? Would it be written down anywhere?”

She bit her lip, shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

“Okay,” Evan said. “Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to disturb your Wednesday night.”

“No problem. Wednesday ain’t exactly bumpin’ around here.”

As he turned to go, he saw Sofia still spying through a crack in her bedroom door. She gave him a sad little wave, just her fingers fluttering.

“If I find anything out,” he said, a bit more loudly than he needed to, “I’ll let you know.”

Brianna nodded.

He’d just reached the door when she said, “Hang on.”

She waved him over to the desk. As he drew nearer, he saw that many of the bills were overdue. The rickety desk looked to be garage-sale quality, scratched and chipped and marred with stray pen marks. Brianna pointed to a scrawled series of letters and numbers on the rear ledge: “TG3328.”

“He wrote this on here,” she said. “For when he used to log in to send a message to his friend. It’s the C-something number.”

“CDCR,” Evan said. “California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.”

“Yeah, that,” she said. “The inmate number.”

Evan looked down at the wizened Dell laptop. “Is that his computer?”

“Hail no,” she said, snatching it up and holding it to her chest. “Don’t get no ideas. Just bought it new off eBay. Used. But new to me.”

He showed his palms. “Just asking. I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t know how much help it was.”

“Plenty,” he said.

She showed him out.

He walked down the hall, tipping an imaginary hat to the ladies in the laundry room, who side-eyed him with distrust.

He’d just stepped out the front door and down the steps when he sensed movement behind him and felt a blade against his throat.

22

A Lifetime Ago

The pressure of the knife on Evan’s Adam’s apple was light, unsure. A professional would have placed it to the side, resting over the stem of the carotid just before it split. Plus, a professional would be standing offset to protect his stomach and groin from a backward strike.

All in all a poor showing.

Evan cleared his throat. “You’re gonna want to grab my head and pull it back to bare the neck,” he said. “Or you’ll get hung up in the sternocleidomastoid.”

“The fuck?” the guy said, the knife tension easing. “You fucking crazy?”

Evan grabbed the wrist, rolled it outward, shot an elbow back into the sternum, and stepped to the side.

The guy stumbled back a few steps, doubled over, coughing. To his credit he kept the knife. When he straightened up, Evan blinked twice to stimulate his night vision and make sure he was seeing correctly.

It was Duran.

He waved the blade in front of him. The handle was chipped, the steel rusted.

Evan said, “Is that a bread knife?”

Duran regarded it. “Steak knife, I think.”

“No,” Evan said. “I’m pretty sure it’s a bread knife. That curved end is gonna give you problems unless you plan to saw me to death.”

Duran considered. “Maybe I’ll just nick you and let you die of tetanus in five months.”

Evan glanced up at the stars, listened for that buzz announcing impending doom, but there was nothing in the air except a few amorous crickets chirping away. He doubted that whoever was behind all this would risk another Hellfire on domestic soil, especially near a populated apartment building, but nearly having his ass incinerated had dented his confidence in his ability to prognosticate.

Evan said, “We should get off the street.”

“Why?”

“So you can stab me in private.”

“No,” Duran said. “Not until you answer a few questions first. Like, why you stalking my wife and kid?”

“I’m looking for you.”

“You with them other folks? The ones who killed Jake Hargreave?”

“No.”

Regarding Duran directly, Evan experienced the same unnerving déjà vu he’d felt when he’d caught his first clear glimpse of Veronica. Some flicker of recognition beneath the surface, a dreamlike recollection at once foreign and familiar. Duran’s handsome face looked worn beyond its years, brown skin, stubble flecked with white. An accent mark of a keloid scar punctuated his right eyebrow, a darker shade of brown than the surrounding skin.

“Then what the fuck you want with me?” With each word Duran jabbed the rusty knife in the air.

“I was asked to help you.”

“By who?”

“Veronica LeGrande.”

Duran moved back, his step faltering, and lowered the knife to