Page 87 of Lone Wolf

“Okay,” Joey said, “right. Just remember…”

On the screen, Jayla was still hunched over in bed, hugging her stomach, shoulders quivering.

“What?” Evan said.

Joey said, “She’s a kid.”

“She’s your age.”

“But she’s not me, X.”

On the screen Jayla was rocking now, her hands moving repetitively, instinctively. I want to go home. I want to go home.

Evan took the RoamZone off mute. “Jayla.”

I want my dad. I want my dad. I want my dad.

“Jayla.”

She looked up. Downturned mouth, stretched with sorrow. Her keening made ragged shapes of grief that were hard to hear. He pushed down an internal dial, lowering the emotional content of her sobs until only the other frequencies were audible.

Jayla curled forward, shuddering.

“Stay until Wednesday,” Evan said. “You need to do that. I’ll clear the way. I’ll get you to your aunt. I’ll get you home. I promise. Okay? Look at me. Look at me.”

It took a moment for her to lift her head, matted hair straggling down across her eyes.

He shaped the word for her, touching his left index finger to his lips then flattening the hand and pushing it down atop his right fist: Promise.

Jayla’s eyes welled. She looked at him with desperation and hope.

He focused hard on his face, let her in.

A spark of connection he felt through his chest, as a pain in the vertebrae of his neck. He held open. She saw something in him she needed to see, jerked a quick nod, and severed the connection.

The penthouse was suddenly, brutally silent. Alcohol lingered at the back of his tongue, firing his inhalation. He stared at the dark screen.

Joey had blanched. She scratched at her forehead. There wasn’t anything to say.

She pushed back from the island, the legs of the stool scraping across concrete. At the noise, Dog curled upward from rump to nose like a bass breaking water, harumphed, and settled down once more. Joey walked back to the Vault.

He sat with his martini glass, two-thirds full.

He no longer felt thirsty.

41

Vivid Reds and Charred Blacks

Evan cleaned the kitchen.

He hand-washed the martini glass, dried it to prevent water spots, set it back in its place. Didn’t you get the tweet? No one cares about anything anymore. Ran steaming water across the steel pick, put it away along with Joey’s cup and spoon, scrubbed the counter down. It’s not fucking fixable ever, and now and then I want a little rum. Then he wiped down the sink, the faucet, the taps. I want my dad. I want my dad. I want my dad.

Using a hand towel, he polished the front of the Sub-Zero, buffing out smaller and smaller streaks until he realized he’d gotten caught in a repetition of the Second Commandment, allowing it to morph into a spin cycle. He set down the towel and stared at the remaining streaks, giving them time to evanesce. Some did.

Not all.

His gaze was still locked on the last stubborn streak on the refrigerator door when Joey came running up the hall from the direction of the Vault.