Page 122 of Into the Fire

“No, thank you,” Evan said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

“I’m fine.”

49

An Orphan’s Best Friend

The tonnage of Advil in Evan’s system kept the pain in his head to a low roar as he disabled the various front-door locks and pushed into his penthouse. The first thing he saw: dirty plates on the kitchen island. The first thing he smelled: dog. The first thing he heard: pounding footsteps and claws scrabbling across the concrete floor.

He held up a hand as Joey and Dog the dog flew up the hall from the master suite. “Wait, my head’s really—”

But Joey slammed into him with a hug, her cheek pressed to his chest. Despite the thunderous throbbing in his skull, he held her. The dog nudged his wet snout between them until Evan lowered his palm to be nuzzled. Joey’s hair smelled of fresh shampoo, the shaved right side bristling against his chin. Her hands were clamped around the small of his back, ratcheting him tight enough that his bruised ribs ached.

But he didn’t let go.

Not until she shoved him away, wiped her nose, and averted her gleaming green eyes.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Evan said.

“I’m not glad to see you,” Joey said. “I’m just relieved you didn’t get yourself killed. There’s a difference.”

“I understand.”

She wiped at her nose again. Her face was still flushed. “I tore Bedrosov’s life apart and didn’t find anything else. I think you did it. I think he’s the end of the line.”

The finality seemed to weigh at them both. Was this really the end of the mission? The end of the Nowhere Man?

Evan broke the silence. “Nice work.”

She nodded. “Remember that when you get all anal-retentive about the fact that me and Dog slept in your stupid floating bed.”

“You let the dog—”

Joey held up a finger in warning. “Not a word. Except thank you.”

Evan clenched his jaw. “Thank you.”

“You look like shit. How’s your concussion?”

“Okay.”

“Good. It’s over. Which means you do nothing now but rest. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Joey snapped her fingers, and Dog trotted over to her side. “So me and this stupid dog you stuck me with better get out of here before anyone notices. Every time I took him out to go potty, we had to Scooby-Doo our way around that tight-ass HOA guy with the Where’s Waldo? glasses.”

“I have no idea what any of that means.”

Already she was out the door, her voice wafting back. “You need a shower. And shave already. You look like a hobo. A concussed hobo.”

The door closed.

He stood a moment in the quiet, trying not to let the crusted plates on the counter and the dog hair on the floor aggravate him. What a different way to come home. Footsteps, a hug, a warm muzzle in the palm.

Maybe his new life could include these things.