And then he sensed his body flying back against the side of the Town Car, the safety glass of the windows cascading around him, and he tried to make out the face of the man behind the weapon that was tearing him to shreds.

The face was nothing but a silhouette, as black as the darkness that surged up and claimed him.

65. Fragile Little Bond

65

Fragile Little Bond

The cab swept into the porte cochere, delivering Evan to Castle Heights. He spilled out of the car, raw from pain and two days of grueling travel, his bedraggled appearance undercutting the grand entrance. When he reached for the heavy glass door to the lobby, a dagger of pain shot across his ribs. He lowered his arm and staggered a half step to the side, nearly colliding with Ida Rosenbaum of 6G.

The wizened woman, crusted with makeup and built like a fire hydrant, glowered up at him. “Careless, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, ma’am. I’m just…”

“You’re just what?”

He tried to let his right arm hang normally. “Just a little jet-lagged.”

“Jet-lagged? Had a rough business trip, did you?”

He ducked his head to hide the band of skin on his neck that still bore scabs from the shock collar. “You could say that.”

“My Herb, may he rest in peace, worked his fingers to the bone and never complained a day in his life. We knew what hardship was, our generation.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We weren’t kvetchers.”

“No, ma’am.”

She clutched her purse to her jacket, a shade of red not found in nature. He realized she was waiting for him to open the lobby door for her. To avoid doing a close-quarters pirouette, he had to reach for the handle with his right hand.

He braced himself, opened the door through the fireworks exploding inside his shoulder, and smiled with gritted teeth. With a waft of rose water, she passed beneath his arm. And with great relief, he released the door and stepped into the cool air of the lobby.

“Evan Smoak!”

As he pivoted at the sound of the raspy voice, Peter collided into him with a hug. Wincing, Evan patted his back.

The boy wore true-blue jeans with a toy gun and holster on one hip and a lasso on the other. A shoved-back cowboy hat completed the John Wayne vibe.

“You like my Halloween costume?”

Evan gave a nod, shuffle-stepping for the elevator. He needed to get upstairs and peel off the dressings before he bled through. “Can’t beat the classics.”

When he looked up, Mia stood right there, holding an empty pillowcase. “Hi, Evan.”

“No costume for you?”

“This is my costume.” She flared her arms theatrically. “It’s called ‘Single Mom Without the Time-Management Skills to Comb Her Hair.’”

He caught himself noticing the birthmark kissing her temple, the way her curly chestnut hair fell across her shoulders, and reined in his focus.

Elevator. Upstairs. Now.