Page 62 of Omega’s Forward

Her door is open. She’s at the desk with a laptop and she doesn’t look surprised to see me. I have never once seen her look surprised.

“Mr. Callahan.”

“I need his address.”

“Good morning to you as well.”

“Priya.” I make myself slow down. “His address in London. Please.”

She closes the laptop halfway. “Mr. Rourke’s address is not mine to give.”

“I have to see him.”

She shrugs. “Keeping people from seeing him is most of my job.”

“This isn’t club business.”

“I assumed not. Mr. Belanger’s office is down the hall for that.” She folds her hands. She isn’t going to help me, but she isn’t throwing me out either. She raises her eyebrows. “He has a phone. If you want to talk to him, call him. If he wants to talk to you, he’ll answer.”

I take a breath. “He’s pregnant.”

Nothing moves in her face. Not an eyebrow. Anybody else would swear she already knew.

But I’ve watched Priya operate since the spring. I know her now. “I see,” she says.

He never told her. She is the person he trusts with everything he owns, and he didn’t tell her. He’s sitting in that city carrying this completely alone.

“Please, Priya.”

“No. If Mr. Rourke wanted you to have his address, Mr. Callahan, you would have it.”

There it is, then, delivered evenly. He doesn’t want me. Fine. Noted. It changes nothing about the kid.

“I’ll walk every damned street in that city to find him if I have to.”

Until I catch the scent of orange and honey on the air.

Her lips curl up in a smile. “London is nine million people.”

“Then I’d better start early.”

She looks at me across the boxes for a long moment.

“Then I recommend comfortable shoes,” she says, and opens the laptop, and that’s me dismissed.

I’m at the door when she says my name. My first name. First time ever.

“Brody.” I turn. She doesn’t look up from the screen. “Good luck.”

On the way down I take the long way through the concourse, past the photo of Gordie at nineteen with the cup over his head and all his own teeth. Your grandkid, old man. He’d be over the moon, and he’d be over the moon for all the wrong reasons, and there’s nobody left to argue with about it. I keep walking.

I book the flight sitting in my truck on level two of the players’ garage. The fund’s website still says Mr. Rourke is based in London, and it’s the only fact I own, so London it is.

Nine-oh-five tonight, direct, wheels down at Heathrow early morning. I pay stupid money for the seat with legroom, because I simply don’t fit in the tiny little seats they give you as standard. I hit purchase before I can think better of it.

Then I text Belanger telling him I need personal leave for a family matter.

A week, maybe two, sorry for the timing. The reply lands inside a minute. Understood. Keep your phone on.