Page 85 of Mongrels United
Then she saw what was in the frames and her heart, her breath…everything inside her came to an exquisite pause, while she processed what she was seeing, and dealt with the shock it generated.
The photos were all of Nash.
She could see the man she stood beside in the facial features of the very young boy in some of them. As Nash had grown older and taller, his features had become more distinct. The dimple in his chin, the strong, square jaw.
His eyes had never changed though. He’d just learned to hide his true feelings, instead of letting them show on his face the way they did in the photos.
Grady picked up one frame that showed Nash with two men, all of them smiling, standing in front of one of the Wall District walls. Nash looked as though he was around six years old.
“That’s Nason,” Nash said, his voice hoarse. “The one on the left.”
Grady touched the right-hand side of the frame. “And this is Hyram.”
Nash swallowed. He turned and pressed his hand to the wall, as if he was propping himself up. “Nason wasn’t coming here every day to buy a dose. Heranthis place…” He closed his eyes.
Grady rested her hand on his bowed back.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jack came back to the room not long after that, and suggested they go home.
“We’re going to be here for weeks, investigating this lot,” Jack told Grady. “I’ve got most of my squad taking the prisoners back to the holding tanks in the station. The house squad will watch them, so my first squad can go off duty. They deserve a break.”
“They do,” Grady said fervently.
“I’m going to be heading to the Bridge inside the hour, myself, to start the interrogations,” Jack continued. “You two need to go decompress, so you can smile for the lenses, later, Chief. Sterilize Nash’s cut, slap a gro-patch on it, and shove pain killers down his throat. A couple hours of sleep and he’ll be good for dancing.” Jack laughed at her own joke. “Or see a medic, if you can find one actually on duty today. Riordan says the ship is deserted, outside the Aventine. Everyone’s squashed in there, partying like there’s no tomorrow.”
Riordan was the lieutenant of the Bridge Security division, who had come down to the Palatine with his squads, to help with the clean up.
Grady looked at Nash. “It’s probably a good idea. Think you can walk back to the tavern?”
“Oh, we can do better than that,” Jack said. “We commandeered the autotaxis. They’re all sitting on the grass at the edge of the forest. They don’t need payment. Just put in your coordinates and it’ll take you back. Only, reprogram it to come back here, when you’re done.” She waved them away.
Nash and Grady walked very slowly through the trees. Nash was silent and Grady had much to think about, too. At the edge of the trees, when she could see the Meadow through the trunks, Grady said, “I’m sorry, Nash. About your father. I keep saying it, I know, but I am. It’s a shitty thing to learn about your parents.”
Nash grimaced. “I warned you. I said he kept shifting on me. Every time I learned something about him, and thought I was figuring him out.”
“You did.”
As he lurched heavily and gave a soft curse, Grady said, “Maybe you shouldn’t go to the game tonight. Your team has won most of their games without you being there through the season. And you’re hurting.”
Nash shook his head. “I’m going to that game,” he said flatly. “I have more reasons than you know for being there when the ball drops.”
Grady didn’t try to reason with him after that. She’d got to know that tone of his. Nash’s mind was made up.
When they reached his apartment, Grady followed Jack’s directions carefully. She sterilized the cut on the back of Nash’s thigh—it was deeper than she had thought, and she wondered if they should try to find a medic, after all.
“Glue it together,” Nash told her. “The glue will hold the edges together as good as stitches will, and you can print glue.”
“Glueit?”
“Trust me, it works,” Nash told her. “I’ve done it before.” His hand reached for his face, then he aborted the movement, but Grady’s gaze shifted to the very fine, pale scar running parallel with his brow. No one could see it unless they were standing as close to Nash as she was. A boxing cut, she guessed. One he’d treated with glue.
With all the serenity and calmness she could muster, Grady printed out the type of glue Nash recommended, then squeezed the freshly cleaned wound edges together and spread the glue over them.
“Will the chemicals in the glue interfere with the gro-patch?” she asked, as she worked.
“Not usually,” Nash murmured, his voice muffled by the pillow he was resting on.
