Page 48 of The Delivery

Derek’s eyes get glassy. He is crying. The sight of it, for some reason, is awful. His face jerks unattractively. He looks so different from his impeccably groomed self.

Something gnaws at Mark’s chest. Pity? Empathy? Whatever it is, it works like acid on his resentment, dissolving it into a puddle of dismay.

“Alexa only stayed twenty minutes,” Derek says, slurring with tears and morphine. “How long would Rebecca have stayed if it was you? Or you for her?”

Mark knows in this moment that lying would not be merciful. So he tells the truth. “All night,” he says. “All the way through.”

Derek closes his eyes, tears clinging to the gunk on his lashes. He nods once, a dip of the chin, only down. He knew the answer already. “Can you run things while I’m out?”

Mark says, “If you trust me to.”

“I do. Thank you, Mark. Thank you.” A wobbly hand rises, trailing lines and cords.

Mark takes it. It isn’t a handshake. More like they hold hands for a moment, the touch oddly intimate.

He looks down at Derek’s tear-glassy eyes, and something passes between them.

“’M sorry,” Derek says. “. . . Sorry.”

His head sags to the side as he drifts off.

Chapter 35

Mr. Man is fully charged.

That is good.

He has lots to handle still.

He has been busy.

It is hard to follow someone, to figure out their schedule, to wait for the perfect opening.

As long as he stays in the car, he can blend in. He changed the license plates already and gave the Porsche a quick black coat using spray paint he stole from an automotive store late last night.

Parked outside the residence, he waits and watches for his target.

He needs the right opening, the right angle, and a lack of witnesses.

It will be challenging.

But that is okay.

Mr. Man is up for a challenge.

And once he takes care of this, he will move on to the thing that he must take care of.

The Higgins family still needs so much more of his help.

Chapter 36

Rebecca and Maddy arrive at school early so Rebecca can work kiss-and-ride. Greeting kids, hauling backpacks out of trunks, dealing with rich parents who don’t heed the simple traffic rules, who don’t bother to get off their cell phones, who treat the volunteers like hired help.

Gray clouds pile up atop one another, threatening rain, which seems unseasonable in Los Angeles, no matter the season. Nerves jangle inside Rebecca as she breathes the wet air and waits for Mark’s call from the hospital.

It finally comes in, of course, at peak drop-off time. She cannot stop herself from answering, even as cars pile up and horns bleat. Her attention is split between the call and a tricky trunk latch.

“Someone stole one of his antique Porsches and injured him bad,” Mark is saying. “But he doesn’t know who.”