Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

“Really.”

The smile vanished. She leaned past Evan and said, “You can come out now.”

Peter bounded out, pounced back into his chair, blew a giant bubble, and got to work on his orange again.

Evan said to Mia, “He seems chastened.”

“Hey. Evan wanted to talk to you.” She snapped her fingers in front of Peter’s face, and he straightened up, his charcoal eyes suddenly serious. He looked like a little man sitting there in his deceased father’s shirt.

“What?” he said.

“All those decorations you do,” Evan said. “Christmas. New Year’s. Birthdays. Thanksgiving. Halloween.”

“Kwanzaa,” Peter said. “I’m working on a Kwanzaa poster with the colors of Africa for next week.”

“And Kwanzaa,” Evan said. “I want you to know that everyone who lives here, all the old people, it cheers them up. Cheers me up, too.”

“Even though you’re super tough.”

“Even though I’m super tough. I see how you notice people, too, when they’re sad or lonely—”

“Like Lorilee Smithson.”

“Like Lorilee Smithson,” Evan said. “And I may not have the standing to tell you this, but I want you to know I’m proud of you. I see you, and I’m proud of you.”

Peter flushed a bit and for once was silent. Next to Evan, Mia watched, too, her hand coming to rest on his knee beneath the table.

“I had someone who raised me,” Evan said. “Who was a father to me. He didn’t tell me he was proud of me often. And I remember that even when he did, I didn’t believe it. Because I was just me, right, and even though he was honest as hell, a little tiny part of me thought he’s just saying that because that’s what adults say to make kids feel good about themselves. Or because they have to.” He leaned forward, placed his palm on Peter’s arm, looked him dead in the eyes. “I want you to know I know that little part. I know it in you. And I’m telling you, it’s wrong.”

Peter rose from his chair, circled the table, and hugged Evan around the neck hard enough to choke him.

74Nowhere Left to Go

Fresh lemon and currant.

That’s what led the nose of Guillotine Vodka. Made from white and black grapes that had been handpicked in the Champagne region, Guillotine was distilled in cognac barrels made of Limousin oak, which smoothed out the mid-palate. Velvety mouthfeel, good weighting on the finish. When Evan closed his eyes, he could pick up the faintest exclamation of Szechuan pepper.

Emerging from his vodka freezer wrapped in tendrils of mist, he set the martini glass on the kitchen counter. His RoamZone was plugged into its charging station, pinning down that yellowed newspaper clipping he’d taken from his mother’s wallet.

His father.

A bronc rider.

For the love of Mary.

He figured that after the last few weeks, he’d take some time before diving into the next familial adventure.

But he’d keep the phone near him. Someone else was out there right now in gut-wrenching despair, someone who needed his help.

And it was his responsibility to be there for that call.

The events set in motion by Veronica’s call had dragged him back to his past and in doing so had taught him about a different kind of future, one that integrated who he’d always been with who he wanted to be.

He needed to meditate and find how these new realities could live inside him. How he could make room for them and let them germinate.

He picked up the phone, smirked, and shot Joey a text. LUNCH AND A MOVIE TOMORROW?

The three bubbles indicated she was typing back. Then: NEW PHONE WHO DIS?

He actually laughed out loud.

Evidently she’d joined him on the other end, her next message coming through. LOL. YEAH.

He padded to his bedroom. Frost from the freezer still clouded the martini glass. It was cool in his grip, against his lips, contrasting with the warmth it spread through his belly.

Delightful.

He reached the bedroom and passed the floating bed. The Laser Warning Receiver clip rested atop his bureau with some spare change. It had served him well.

He had about an hour now to sip vodka and center himself before heading downstairs to join Mia’s dinner party. Her brother would be there—and his wife—and Evan felt the old discomfort glow to life in his chest.

What should he bring? What would they talk about? What if they asked him personal questions?

He moved to the window and gazed out. The setting sun had morphed from yellow to amber, overflowing the horizon to suffuse the urban corridor of Wilshire with a royal glow.

The windows of the building across mirrored back Castle Heights. Evan could see the entirety of the building beneath him, all the floors, all those condos in which people carved out lives for themselves, lives filled with grief and joy, despair and hope.

And for the first time, he wondered if he actually might belong here.

It came so faintly he almost didn’t register it.

Three notes from a bugle.

Taps.

He swung his head to face to the bureau.

Sure enough, the Laser Warning Receiver was lit up.

Panic hit his bloodstream, a mass injection of adrenaline.

He pivoted back.

Saw a metallic glint hovering twenty meters outside his bedroom window. Two yellow-green eyes staring back at him.

And ten meters behind that, three more microdrones loitered in place, a hundred meters above the boulevard below. Grouped tightly to compound their explosive effect.

The glass had already left his hand.

Vodka fountaining up, describing an arc in the air.

He was through the door into the hall by the time the martini glass shattered behind him.

He reached the big room when the first microdrone hit, penetrating the armored glass of his bedroom window.

Heat at his back, a rising hum.

The other three rocketing through the breach hole into the penthouse.

He hurdled a treadmill, shoulder glancing off a heavy bag.

Slammed into the sliding glass door of the south-facing balcony.

Wrenched it open, ripped it shut behind him. He careened into the railing, whirling to face the drop, cars and pedestrians swimming vertiginously below. Nowhere left to go.

An instant later the penthouse exploded.

Acknowledgments

Orphan X gets to live and breathe because of you, my readers. Your engagement, your energy, your passion is why I get to spend my days in a delightful reverie.

You have my gratitude.

As do:

The booksellers and librarians who have been with me from my childhood, shepherds to the world of stories.

My publishing team at Minotaur Books: Keith Kahla, Andrew Martin, Sally Richardson, Don Weisberg, Jennifer Enderlin, Alice Pfeifer, Hector DeJean, Paul Hochman, Kelley Ragland, and Martin Quinn.

My crew at Michael Joseph/Penguin Group UK: Rowland White, Louise Moore, Laura Nicol, Ariel Pakier, Jon Kennedy, and Christina Ellicott.

My representatives: Lisa Erbach Vance and Aaron Priest of the Aaron Priest Agency; Caspian Dennis at the Abner Stein Agency; Stephen F. Breimer, Esq.; Dana Kaye, Julia Borcherts, Hailey Dezort, and Nicole Leimbach of Kaye Publicity.

The subject matter experts Evan depended on for this adventure, including:

—Geoff Baehr, expert in all matters digital

—Michael “Borski” Borohovski, hacker

—Duane Dwyer, United States Marine, co-founder of Strider Knives, professor of Gracie Barra Brasilian Jiujitsu

—Philip Eisner, narrative wizard

—Dr. Melissa Hurwitz, physician

—Jeremy Levitan, PhD, expert in microdrones

—Dr. Bret Nelson, emergency medicine (offense and defense)

—Kurata Tadashi, twenty-first-century samurai

Delinah Hurwitz, my heart; Natalie Hurwitz, my light; Simba and Cairo, my id; and Marjorie and Alfred Hurwitz, my foundation.