Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,99
to Joey at the hotel and see if she could make any sense from the live stream he’d initiated in the battle lab.
He shoved into the foyer, the scent of poinsettias riding the thin breeze from the porch, and then he spotted her.
Cammy, the girl in the ripped jeans.
Standing alone on the second-to-lowest step of the stairs, gripping an elbow with her opposite hand, a dazed look in her eyes. One cheek splotched red, maybe from being slapped. Her blouse ripped at the side seam, showing a bulge of tanned flesh. She was chewing her lip, looking at nothing.
After losing at hide-and-seek with a robotic bee, confronting a swarm of glowing eyes in the darkness, and standing down a genius who’d batted him through a subterranean lab like a cat toying with a mouse, this was not a complication Evan welcomed right now. The Seventh Commandment: One mission at a time.
He turned his back to the girl and started out. He neared the threshold, the December air cool and welcoming across his face, freedom just a few steps away.
Then he paused.
He thought about the bearded man—Rishi—tugging Cammy’s breast. Ordering her to kiss the other girl. They know what they’re looking for.
He gritted his teeth.
This wasn’t really another mission.
More like a sub-mission.
He turned back around. A pair of drunken revelers stumbled down the stairs, knocking Cammy in the shoulder, shuddering her frame. She barely seemed to register them.
Evan walked back to her. She clung to the newel post. Her blouse hung low in the front as if it had been yanked and stretched out, her ribs visible above her breasts. She shifted, and the neckline tugged over, exposing a nipple.
Evan paused five feet from her, a safe distance back. “Excuse me?”
It took a moment for her eyes to settle on him.
“May I walk closer to you?”
Her hands gripped the newel post, thin arms trembling. She jerked her head up, down.
He walked near her. “Your shirt is out of place.”
She looked down. She moved to reach for her collar but seemed to collapse forward; she needed the post to hold herself upright.
Evan said, “May I adjust your shirt back into place?”
She nodded.
He reached out slowly and tugged the fabric up to cover her. He pulled his hoodie off and held it out. She nodded.
He drew it across her shoulders. She smelled clean and sweet, deodorant and perfume. He imagined her getting ready earlier—preparing for a fun night ahead, checking her lipstick in the mirror, maybe a bit of music on—and had to tamp down the simmering in his chest.
She said, “Will you get me out of here?”
Evan shouldered her weight and helped her off the stairs. He pushed through the people in the foyer with purpose, and they seemed to sense his mood and move aside.
On the porch one of the bouncers said, “Hope you had a good evening.”
Evan caught his eye. “I have a feeling,” he said, “that I’ll be coming back.”
As Evan moved Cammy toward the gates, someone crooned after them from the photo area. “Yeaaah, boy. Go get some!”
They walked in silence, Evan bearing her weight. Cammy kept her eyes down to check her footing and make sure she didn’t stumble on her wedge heels. The air smelled of eucalyptus, the sidewalks littered with shed peels of bark. Slowly the noise of the party faded behind them, and then it was just the sound of her shoes ticktocking the concrete and her hoarse breathing.
They reached Evan’s truck. He paused by the passenger door. “Are you comfortable getting in?”
She nodded.
He unlocked the door and helped her up and then circled around. As he pulled himself into the driver’s seat, he noticed she was sobbing. Face tilted into her hands, shoulders trembling, deep, wrenching sobs. He let her cry.
Five minutes passed and then another five. He wondered if she wanted some physical reassurance, a rub of her back, but wasn’t sure if that would be invasive. He wondered if men raised with mothers actually knew better what to do in circumstances like this. Veronica came into his mind, her cool, mysterious demeanor holding no answers.
At last Cammy lifted her head. “How do I stop crying?”
“You don’t,” Evan said. “You don’t right now.”
“What do I do?”
“How old are you?”
“I turned eighteen on Tuesday. They checked my ID before they let me on the list. Took a picture, even. For, like, evidence.” A smile found her face, though it held no happiness. A resting grin, the kind that young women wore to cover