Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,58

was mostly empty. He poured.

Behind the bar a few pill bottles rested beside Veronica’s clutch purse. Vitamin K. Calcium. And a prescription written under her name for rifaximin, an antibiotic used to soothe stomach problems from traveling. Veronica presented such a resilient and polished façade that he hadn’t considered the human fragility beneath.

The plush carpet muted his steps as he returned the glass to her. She took it with a nod of thanks, a flush sitting high on her cheeks and her throat. She patted the cushion at her side. He took a seat but left a good amount of space between their hips.

She said, “Okay.” She sipped. Sipped again.

The ARES dug into his ribs. He shifted the holster anchoring on the belt to make sure it wasn’t pointing at his femoral artery or more sensitive anatomy yet.

He watched Veronica looking at him and had trouble reading her expression. Intrigue? Wariness? My son, the assassin.

He mustered his nerve. The words felt like pulling barbed wire through a closed fist. “You said I had a middle name. It wasn’t on any of the paperwork. What was it?”

She said, “Bartholomew.”

“Really?”

“No.” Her lips pursed, a not-quite smile.

“Forget it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t on the paperwork because I didn’t want to name you. I thought if I named you, I couldn’t bear to part with you. I called you baby boy. For the week I had you, I called you baby boy.”

The words came into him as such, unattached to the greater meaning they dragged beneath the surface. He could register them consciously, but the emotional impact felt numbed, dull, like sound traveling underwater.

She’d had him a week. She’d been terrified of bonding with him or parting with him. She’d called him baby boy.

She continued, “But when I left you with the Krausses, the paperwork, I needed to put down something, a name. And I realized I’d already named you even though I didn’t know it. Evan.”

“What … what was I like?”

“You barely cried. The doctor thought something was wrong with you. But I knew there wasn’t. I could see how sensitive you were, how much you were taking in, that you were overcome by it. And to survive you had to shut off parts of yourself, what you felt, what you reacted to. God, what do I know? Maybe it was all projection. My own broken heart mapped onto a newborn.”

His RoamZone chimed in his pocket, and he fished it out. A text from Joey listing five Chinese restaurants in El Sereno that fit the search parameters.

He stood. “I need to go find Andre.”

Her face was lowered, flushed with alcohol. She lifted a hand clumsily for him to take. He stared at it, slender fingers, soft pale skin, manicured nails. Her eyes, imploring.

He nodded at her and walked out.

30

From Nothing to Something

Evan hit the target at the fourth location. The Szechuan Rose, enticingly sandwiched between a Chevron station and a pawnshop, had glazed red roof tiles and a glossy plastic dragon standing sentry at the entrance. The place bustled, the dinner shift in full swing. After several requests got lost in translation, the hostess sent Evan up the chain of command, pointing him to the kitchen. The inexplicably Japanese owner, busy orchestrating a massive take-out order, waved him up a back flight of stairs.

Evan knocked on the flimsy door at the top. A chain rustled, and a moment later Andre’s face appeared at the gap. His features contracted.

“How the hell’d you find me?”

“Long story.”

Andre’s eyes darted to look over Evan’s shoulder. “Your dumb ass was prob’ly followed here.”

“I wasn’t followed.”

“How would you know?”

“I’d know.”

Andre glared at him. “I told you to leave me alone.”

“Look. I’m here. No point in putting this off. Let’s just sit down and talk.”

“It’s a bad time.”

Evan said, “No shit.”

He held an unremitting gaze until Andre rolled his head back, cursed, and opened the door. When Evan stepped inside, the cooking aromas from the kitchen only intensified. He looked at the heating vents, and Andre nodded and said, “All day long I’m breathin’ egg foo yong up in here.”

Unmade bed. Dirty clothes heaped on the floor. A folding closet raked open to reveal a few crooked shelves. Evan could have spread his arms and touched opposite walls. In the far corner, a hot plate, basin sink, card table, and single chair composed a woeful kitchenette. A bathroom the size of a coat closet.

The only note of grace was a beautifully rendered sketch thumbtacked to the