The remaining pair of narcos had their AKs raised, but Evan knew damn well they hadn’t gone to all this hassle to gun him down on an overpriced bedspread. Hurling the cart aside, he lunged forward. Dex looped an arm around René’s midsection, spinning him out into the hall.

Before Evan could close the distance, he heard a hissing behind him. He wheeled around, sourcing the noise to the heating vent, only now grasping that it was—

10. The Strange Language of Intimacy

10

The Strange Language of Intimacy

Blood on his neck, swollen cheek, wrists still scraped raw from handcuffs. Evan’s small for a twelve-year-old, scrawny, and can’t remember the last time he had a full belly.

He has undergone a daunting set of initiation rites to land here, in this passenger seat of this dark sedan, heading God knows where. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know what he will be used for. He doesn’t know anything aside from the name of the man driving.

Jack Johns.

Maybe this time everything will be different, and—

Evan stops the thought. Hope is dangerous. In his brief life, he’s done his best to eradicate it.

Jack clears his throat. “You no longer exist,” he tells Evan. “You went away for a felony and disappeared into the system.”

“’Kay,” Evan says.

Jack bobs his bulldog head.

An hour later they cross the murky green water of the Potomac and forge west into Arlington, Virginia. The commercial district gives way to tree-lined streets, and then there are more trees and fewer streets. Finally they turn off between twin stone pillars onto a dirt road and wend their way back to a two-story farmhouse.

The silence has grown oppressively thick in the car, and it feels risky to break it. Evan waits until they’ve pulled in to the circular driveway and gotten out by the old-fashioned porch. Then he asks, “Where are we?” and Jack says, “Home.”

The house smells damp but pleasant, redolent of burned wood. Evan regards the foyer and the family room with suspicion. He doesn’t trust the maroon carpet runner up the stairs, the plush brown corduroy couches, the pots hanging from a brass rack in the kitchen. The spectacle of undeniable domesticity leaves him humming with distrust.

“Would you like to go upstairs, see your room?” Jack asks.

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what I’m here for.”

“Later.”

Evan gathers his courage, does his best to summon Van Sciver. “After everything I did to get here, I think I’ve earned some respect.”

Jack regards him calmly. “If you have to ask for respect, you’re not gonna get it.”

Evan does his best to digest this. The words feel less like a slap than a solid wall dropped before him from a lofty height.