Page 33 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

Myron said it just like that. Boom. No warning, no clearing of his throat, nothing. He wanted to see her reaction, but if he expected something dramatic or revealing, that wasn't happening. Nancy put down the wineglass and folded her arms.

"Are you serious?"

"I am."

"Why on earth . . . ?" She stopped herself. "I think you should leave."

"I spoke to Chick about it."

"Then you know already."

"Know what?"

"It was nothing."

Interesting. The same argument. Myron decided to do a little bluffing. "That's not what he said."

"Pardon?"

"Chick admitted you two were having an affair."

A small smile came to her lips. "You're full of shit, Myron."

And so he was.

"We were friends," Nancy said. "We talked. We talked a lot."

"Yeah, Nancy, no offense, but I'm not buying that."

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't, no."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, Chick doesn't hit me as a great talker."

"But he does hit you as being a great lay?"

Touche, Myron thought.

Nancy moved close to him. She looked up at him with the eyes of a doe. It was, he imagined, a move she'd made before to get a point across to a man. It was, he imagined, a move that had served her well in the past.

"Will you trust me that it has nothing to do with what happened to the boys?"

"No," Myron said.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"You think I'm lying?"

"Maybe," Myron said. "Or maybe you don't know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Things ripple. Things wiggle beneath the surface. You can't always see them, especially when you're as close to it as you are. You know about the butterfly effect, the concept that a butterfly flapping its wings may seem inconsequential--"

"But can change everything," Nancy finished for him. "I know it. It's nonsense. And anyway--"

She stopped when she heard the clumping footsteps. They both turned toward the stairs. There, stopping on the third step from the bottom, was Patrick Moore. Or maybe-Patrick Moore. Either way, it was the boy Fat Gandhi had stabbed in the tunnel.

Myron surreptitiously hit a button on his mobile phone.

For a moment, no one spoke. Nancy broke the silence.

"Is everything okay, Patrick? Can I get you something?"

Patrick had his eyes on Myron.

"Hi, Patrick," Myron said.

"You're the guy who saved me," he said.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"Francesca said you were here." He swallowed hard. "That fat guy. He tried to kill me."

Myron glanced at Nancy.

"It's okay," Nancy said in the soothing, unmistakable tone of a worried mother. "You're home now. You're safe."

Patrick still had his eyes on Myron. "Why?" he asked. "Why did he stab me?"

It was a common enough question after a violent crime. Myron had seen it before--this need to know. It was an unselfish "Why me?" Rape victims often wonder why they were chosen. So do victims of any crime.

"I think," Myron said, "he was trying to save himself."

"How?"

"He figured that if he stabbed you, I'd stop chasing him. I'd have to choose between going after him and saving you."

Patrick nodded, seeing it now. "Right. I guess that makes sense."

Myron took a tentative step toward the boy. "Patrick," he said, trying to keep his voice even and as nonthreatening as possible, "where have you been?"

Patrick's eyes widened. He looked toward his mother with panic on his face.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Nancy turned toward it. "Who could that--"

"I got it," Myron said. "Hold on a second, Patrick. I have someone I want you to meet."

Myron moved to the front door and opened it. Mickey and Ema, who had been waiting in a separate car for Myron's phone signal, came in with no hesitation. Mickey had a big smile on his face. Ema was carrying a pizza. The aroma filled the room.

It was a long shot, Myron knew, this plan of Mickey's, but Ema had been more optimistic.

"He's a lonely teen locked in his house," Ema explained, "and more than that, pizza in London is pretty basic."

So this was really Mickey and Ema's play. Myron let him take over.

Mickey started toward the steps. "Hey, I'm Mickey. This is Ema. We figured you might want to hang out or something."

Patrick looked at him. "Umm."

Ema said, "Have you tried pizza with buffalo chicken as a topping?"

Patrick's voice was tentative. "No."

Ema nodded. "And bacon bits."

"Seriously?"

"I would never kid about bacon."

"Whoa."

"We were going to save the cheese-filled crust as a surprise," Mickey said, "but some things are too good to keep secret."

Patrick smiled.

"I don't want to build it up," Ema said, opening the box, "but this may be the greatest thing ever."

Nancy said, "Oh, I don't think this is a good idea."

Myron stepped between her and her son. "You said he needed to get acclimated to people his own age," he reminded her.

"Yes, but we've had a long day--"

Patrick interrupted her. "Mom," he said, "it's okay."

"I think it might be gluten-free," Ema tried. Her face broke out in the brightest, goofiest, most endearing grin Myron had ever seen.

Then Patrick laughed--genuinely laughed--and from the look on Nancy's face, Myron guessed that it was the first time she'd seen her child laugh since he was six years old. Ema had been right. Whether it was overgarnished pizza or the normal human need for companionship--most likely a combo of both--Patrick needed this. He'd been deprived too long.

Francesca appeared at the top of the steps. "We were just about to start a movie," she said. "Mom, is it okay if we rent something on demand?"

All eyes turned to Nancy Moore.

"Of course," Nancy Moore managed, her voice choking up. "Go have fun."

*

Myron didn't stay.

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