Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(96)

Something inside him crumbled away, brittle and dead. He thought about the dishes stacked on her counter, the smell of laundry, the instructive Post-its, and how they’d always seemed to be from some other life better than he deserved. Nine floors separated Evan from Mia and Peter, and yet they were out of reach. They always had been. But for a brief time, it had been lovely to pretend otherwise.

He said, “I understand.”

“You understand.” She made an unamused sound of amusement. “You know, I’ve never seen you upset. Never seen you get mad, flustered, lose it. At first I thought it was a kind of strength. But then I realized it’s just a kind of … nothing.”

Her words weren’t just true. They were profoundly true. They landed on him with the tonnage of decades.

“Look,” she said. “Even if this is our last conversation, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to play the role of the one who cares. And you get to play the role of the wanted asset. We can’t figure it out, whatever ‘it’ is. That’s fine. We’re both adults with complicated lives. But I wish you at least had the spine to say that you cared, too.”

It exploded out from the core of him, a blinding heat, escaping before he could trap it. “You think I’m pretending, Mia? That this is some game to me? You think I don’t want to just cook linguine and chat over dinner and be with you? I don’t have the same choices you do. I lost someone very close to me, and I need to set that right, whether I’m stuck with some kid I don’t know what to do with, whether I have other jobs I have to see through, whether you want me to come to dinner. It’s what I have to do.”

His head hummed. His vision felt loose, as if he’d had a drink. He wondered if he’d actually said the words out loud. It seemed improbable that he had.

“Okay,” Mia said. “That’s a start. Thank you.”

There was not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. He was as stupefied by her reaction as he was by his outburst. He had no slot for any of this, no bearings to guide him into familiar shore.

Across the penthouse he heard the slam of his front door.

His pistol was already drawn, aimed at the open bedroom door, a familiar calm descending over him like a drape. He welcomed it.

“I have to go,” he said, and cut the call.

He moved out into the hall, noted a crumpled piece of paper halfway to the great room. He eased past and emerged onto the concrete plain, swinging wide for the best vantage on the closed front door. The elaborate internal locks were unbolted.

Which meant it had been opened from inside.

He holstered the pistol, stuck his head out into the corridor. The elevator had already reached the lobby. He reversed and hustled across to the spiral staircase and up, confirming that, yes, the loft was empty. Joey’s rucksack was still there, her treasured shoe box out on the sofa.

That was good. She’d have to come back for those.

With increasing chagrin he padded downstairs, walked to the end of the hall, and stared at the ball of paper ten yards from his open bedroom door. From this position his words to Mia would have been clear and crisp: I’m stuck with some kid I don’t know what to do with.

He moved forward on numb legs. Crouching over the paper, he uncrumpled it. Fragile pieces of blue and yellow fell out—the remains of a pressed iris from Joey’s maunt.

Joey had written a note of her own on the paper.

Thanks for being there for me. I know I’m not easy.

L, J.





63

Devil Horns

The night breeze cut straight through Evan’s shirt. Outside the abandoned church, Mara Salvatrucha members clustered loosely in front of the reinforced steel door, their shaved heads making them look sleek and feral. Here on the street, they kept their weapons hidden, but their shirts bulged in predictable places.

When they noted Evan’s approach, their skulls pivoted in unison. It was hard to distinguish their eyes from the ink spotting their faces. They flicked their cigarettes aside, shoved off the pillars fronting the church entrance, and presented a unified front that called to mind an NFL defensive line.

As Evan drew within reach, they tugged up their shirts to expose gleaming handguns.

A man with devil-horn tattoos rolled his head back, regarded Evan down the length of his nose. “I think you in the wrong neighborhood.”

Evan said, “I want to talk to Freeway.”

The men laughed. “A lotta folks want to talk to Freeway.”

Evan let the breeze blow.

“Do you have any idea who we are, gringo culero? We are Mara Salvatrucha. I translate it for you. Mara means ‘gang.’ Trucha means ‘fear us.’”

Evan stepped forward. The men drew their pistols but did not aim them. “Your tattoos are designed to elicit fear. You’re probably used to scaring people when you walk down the street, into a store, a restaurant. Because you’ve written right on your face how little you care about how you’re perceived. And that signals that you’re capable of anything. I’m sure you’re used to that working. So look at me. Look at me very closely. And ask yourself: Do I look scared?”

For a moment there was nothing but the white-noise hum of traffic in the distance. Devil Horns sniffed, rolled his lower lip between his teeth.

Evan said again, “Tell Freeway I’m here to see him.”