Page 4 of Prodigal Son

The scuffle had caught Eden’s attention, and her head lifted, gaze landing on him as he weaved through the tables to get to her.

He’d forgotten, in the intervening years, just how intense her eyes were when they were aimed right at you. Her gaze was never picking you apart on a superficial level; she looked straight through your skin, into your soul. Hers was the only scrutiny that had ever made Fox want to squirm.

He didn’t, of course, because he had self-control. But the urge itself was unsettling enough on its own.

Features schooled into a blank mask, he reached her table and dropped into the chair across from her. “Eden.”

“Charlie.”

Rain pattered against the windows; long slide of droplets casting shadows across the floors, across her beautiful face. Conversations ebbed and flowed around them, the musical lilt of his birthplace, so foreign after all his years in the US. Coffee smell, and the tang of tea. Roast beef sandwiches.

He felt reduced. Like he’d been dragged back through time, wind-ruffled and claw-raked, deposited in a moment when he still thought a more legitimate way of life was feasible. Back when he’d thought Eden might be better than him.

He’d meant to tease her, get her flustered, stray off topic and try to suss out what she was doing with her life these days. But now that he was right in front of her, he wanted to get things over with. “Albie said you have something for me to see.”

“Yes.” Her sigh sounded relieved. “Your father appears to have been busy. As usual.” She turned the iPad to face him and slid it across the table.

“As usual,” Fox echoed, and pressed the Play icon.

There was no sound. The footage was grainy, taken through a stationary security camera, but clear enough to see the larger details. The scene was some sort of office building, the lights dimmed for the night; cubicles, file cabinets, copiers, printers, name plaques at the office doors. A man walked into the shot, glancing back over his shoulder to check for a tail. He was older and scruffier than the last time Fox had seen him, but there was no mistaking Devin Green.

Like always, the sight of his father sent competing surges of sadness and fury through him. He hated Devin’s guts…and there would always be a part of him that remained a little boy in need of his daddy’s love.

On-screen, Devin went to one of the file cabinets and produced a key from his pocket, unlocked it and pulled the top drawer out. He flicked through the files with his fingers a moment and finally pulled one out. Scanned it. Tucked it under his arm, shut the cabinet, and left.

The video ended.

“Is that it?” Fox asked, lifting his head.

The corner of her mouth twitched in irritation. “The office belongs to Pseudonym Pharmaceuticals. It’s on the eighteenth floor of a private building with round the clock security. The office requires keycard access and the only two people on the floor with the keys to that file cabinet were at home during the time of the break-in,” she said, voice dry, look flat.

“Was it actually a break-in?”

“A theft,” she amended. “He didn’tbreakanything.”

“That’s dear old Dad for you.” He passed the iPad back. “Always up to his old tricks.” He felt a smile touch his mouth. He hated the man, but he had to admire his commitment to being an asshole. “My question is,” he said, fixing her with a look, “what business is it of yours?”

Her polished façade cracked. Just a little. A glimmer of the real Eden peeking through, the one who drank cold tea spiked with whiskey, who slept late on Sunday mornings and stayed in her pajamas all day, hair in a messy knot, no make-up and skin hungry for touch.

“None of my business, ordinarily,” she said, reaching up to tidy her perfect hair, a nervous gesture. “You know I’ve always liked your father.”

He snorted.

“In a way. He’s impossible to love, but easy to like, you know that.”

“Yeah.”

“But.” And here she looked apprehensive. “Pseudonym contacted me. They sent me the video directly and asked me to track down your father – they don’t know who he is, rest assured. The thief, they’re calling him.”

“You’re freelancing now?”

“Albie didn’t tell you?” She sounded almost hurt.

Fox shrugged. “Albie doesn’t care. He just told me to come handle Dad.”

Eden nodded, visibly pulled her composure back in place. “I’m freelancing,” she confirmed. “Mum and I have a company set up. Two years now.”

“Ah.” It was hard to imagine her bucking the system, leaving the safety of MI5 behind in favor of working her own cases.

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