Prodigal Son by Gregg Hurwitz

Author:Gregg Hurwitz [Hurwitz, Gregg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781405942690
Google: BDnyDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1432885421
Publisher: Penguin UK
Published: 2021-02-04T00:00:00+00:00

37

To Be Continued

Mia answered the door wearing a Columbia Law School T-shirt that drooped to midthigh. She smelled fresh from the shower, green-apple shampoo or conditioner, her mop of wavy chestnut hair brushed back and for once subdued.

“Yes,” she said. “I checked the peephole.”

Evan said, “And you answered anyway.”

“You look a little banged up.”

Given the ringing in his ears from the close-proximity gunshot, her words came in slightly muted. “Rough day at the office.”

She opened the door and offered a hug. Her body felt distinct beneath the T-shirt, every contour of her pressed against him. For a moment he lost himself in the familiarity of her. His mind cast back to the warmth of her bare stomach against his, her mouth at his ear, the arch of her spine. He felt an urge to slide his hand off the midline of her back to the dip of her waist and wrap her into him.

Instead he patted her shoulder blade once and stepped back. Behind her he could hear the TV, something cartoony and symphonic.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mia said.

“You asked me to talk to Peter. About the stuff he’s been grappling with. Your husband—he died when Peter was three, right?”

“Good memory.”

Evan had gone upstairs only to burn his clothes from the impound lot and grab a shower. Standing under the pounding heat of the jets, he’d realized that if he felt lost in regard to Veronica, Peter must have felt the same way about his father. But was trying to process it with a nine-year-old brain.

And that no matter how busy Evan was dodging missiles and mercenaries, he owed it to the boy to try to clear a few obstacles from his path.

Not that he had any idea how to do that.

Mia beckoned him in. “He earned a bit of screen time this week,” she said somewhat defensively. “And tomorrow’s an admin day, so no school.”

Evan said, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Peter’s head popped up above the back of the sofa. “Evan Smoak!”

As Peter zipped into full view, Evan saw he was wearing pajama bottoms and another man’s dress shirt, the tail and front hems swaying down past his knees. The fabric was wrinkled, the collar out of whack, and Evan wondered if he’d been sleeping in his father’s shirts, too.

Peter tried to engage Evan in an elaborate handshake that he couldn’t keep up with. “No,” Peter said, seizing his hand and forcing it into various contortions. His fingers were grubby, sticky with some sugar residue, but Evan restrained himself from drawing away or commenting.

He blundered his way through the ritual, looking over at Mia, who grinned at his discomfort. “I’m gonna finish the dishes,” she said. “Why don’t you two watch TV.”

Peter made a fist, yanked it back beside his waist. “Yesss.” He grabbed Evan’s arm and pulled him around the couch, flopping onto the cushion.

Jerked down next to the boy, Evan grimaced against a rib bruise he’d sustained in his death match with Keller.

On the television

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