Page 7 of Prodigal Son

The carpet in the hallways was dark green, plush, scuffed down the middle from the passage of feet. Fox knocked three times on the ivory door and heard footfalls on the other side.

To his credit, Devin didn’t look surprised to see him when he opened the door. “Charlie,” he said, and opened the door wide, motioning him in with a casual wave. “Good to see you.”

Fox didn’t answer, already stepping past him halfway through the greeting. There was never any need to actually listen to anything the man said; if he was being polite, he never meant it.

The flat looked like a hotel. Tasteful, modern furnishings, gray walls, gray carpet, cheap prints on the walls. The front door opened straight into the combination lounge and kitchen, and nothing from the chrome-legged bar stools to the silk orchid in the windowsill had been picked out by Devin, Fox knew. His dad’s style was nothing but scuffed Docs and mashed cigarette packets.

“This place is too nice for you,” he said, and it wasn’t an insult. He’d never really insulted his father intentionally; being honest around the man just happened to make it sound that way.

Devin stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and nodded. “Oh yeah, definitely.”

Like always, Fox was struck by the notion that looking at the man was like staring into a magic mirror that showed him his future self. He’d always resembled Devin more than the others, and he suspected that was why he’d always been the favorite – if any of them could claim such a thing.

He looked younger than his seventy-plus years, his gray hair thick and unruly, like he’d just run his hands through it, his frame spare and wiry, and tough. He still looked strong; the flesh of his arms was still springy. He looked mid-fifties, at most. But all-in-all he was unremarkable, average in every dimension, the sort of man who could pull up his hood and pass unnoticed through any crowd – traits that made him the perfect thief.

But his eyes. He’d given those to all of his children, that striking, vivid blue that fizzed and spit sparks like downed power lines. Eyes that had wooed countless women…and led to the birth of nine children.

“You want something to drink?” Devin asked, walking into the open-plan kitchen.

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“Brought my own.”

“Sandwich?” Devin opened the fridge and ducked down to peer into it. “Ham’s fresh.”

“Devin.”

He let the fridge door shut slowly, the handle sliding out of his fingers. It hung suspended a moment, before it finally connected with a softpopof seal hitting seal. He turned to give Fox a flat look across the breakfast bar. “What?”

“You know why I’m here.”

Devin smiled. “You finally remembered my birthday?”

“I don’t even thinkyouknow when your birthday is. Come on. Quit playing, old man.”

“Old man? Ouch. Do I look that bad?”

Fox stared at him.

He walked around the bar, hands in his pockets, posture slouched, casual. An impressive feat of acting, except Fox could see the way the leg of his jeans didn’t move naturally over the holster he had belted to his ankle. He feigned hurt. “You didn’t just come to visit?”

“What did you take from Pseudonym Pharmaceuticals?”

“Now, son–”

“Don’t,” Fox snapped, and then bit the tip of his tongue hard enough to taste blood. His temper didn’t snap, it never did. It was one of his rules. He’d mastered the Art of Unflappable long ago. But then there was Devin.

He took a deep breath through his nose, hating the way his father watched him with raised-brow amusement, someone watching a child build toward a tantrum. In a carefully measured voice, he said, “Don’t call me son when we both know you don’t mean it. Tell me what you stole, or I’ll let the police have you.”

“The police?” Devin huffed a laugh and sagged back against the bar, arms folded. “Are you serious? Did someone put you up to this? It’s that bitch Estelle, isn’t it? She’s finally dragged you into her whole child support bid?”

Fox didn’t have to fake the disgusted sound that rose in the back of his throat. “Cassandra is your daughter, asshole. You have to pay child support. If you couldn’t do that, you shouldn’t have gotten your dick out –nine times.” He took a breath that wasn’t at all steadying. His father had the horrifying ability – with just a look – to reduce him to an enraged teenager again. “But no. This has got nothing to do with – you know what, you know what it’s about. I just fucking told you.”

Devintsked. “You always were so emotional, Charlie.”

No, he wasn’t. He’d worked extremely hard to be nothing of the sort.

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