Page 53 of Lone Wolf

“Whatever are you doing now, my dear chap?” she asked, in what he imagined that she imagined to be some sort of fancy Daisy Buchanan accent.

“Working out,” he said.

He went into the master suite, closed the door, and tugged on his gear. By the time he emerged, she’d changed costume and position. Now she was angled severely downward with a tailored gray skirt suit jacket fluttering up and pasted to the wall above her, revealing the chubby bulge of the Velcro suit beneath, and a scarf that likewise trailed toward the ceiling. Unfurled to its full length, her hair was pulled upward as well, completing the impression that she was plummeting to her death. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

The pose was majestic, a piece of living art. It called to mind Kim Novak in Vertigo. He’d watched the film with Jack; at Jack’s behest, they’d seen most of Hitchcock. Evan wondered if that’s where Joey had picked up the visual reference, and a pulse of warmth moved through his heart at the familial overlap.

Dog held his perplexed vigil, his head now tilted in the opposite direction. Joey’s former costume was puddled on one of the couches.

Evan headed to the free weights.

“Young man,” she cried in a tremulous voice as he passed. “Now what are you doing that you can’t help a damsel in distress?”

“Working out,” he said.

“For shame!”

He made sure he was past her before he cracked a smile.

As he hit the bench press, he heard her grunting, the sound of Velcro tearing free, a thump as she hit the floor, and then a quiet stream of Spanish curse words as she tussled with the suit to free herself.

He started doing freestanding handstand push-ups.

It was hard.

Harder than when he was twenty.

Harder than when he was thirty.

Her footsteps approached and then a shadow fell over him. She poked him in the ribs and he collapsed.

“What the hell, X. I hear there’s a new app called a sense of humor. Maybe you should download it.”

His muscles took the opportunity to remind him of the wear and tear he’d put them through. He stared up at her face, which glared upside down at him. He noticed now that she’d rouged her cheeks in red circles to emphasize the chill of the suicidal fall.

“A sorority girl might find it amusing,” he said. “But I’m more urbane.”

“Urbane? More like a hood rat.” She scowled at him but there was mirth in it. She dug a toe into a trigger point in his intercostals with Orphan proficiency. “And yanking my hair outta Velcro? That shit was painful. Like stepped-on-a-Lego painful. And you couldn’t even smile ’cuz it’s not in your Orphan programming.”

“Allman,” he said. “The big boss at Solventry. I want to know more about him, too. That is, if you’re done playing dress-up.”

“Playing? You got any idea how lucky you are to have me handling this Sk3wl of R00t–plus NSA-level hacking job for you? On a friggin’ home visit?”

Her grin was dazzling. Broad nose, full cheeks, dimple in her right cheek —she was so goddamned winning it was nearly impossible for him not to feel affection toward her. And she was beautiful, too, beautiful in a way wholly specific to her, regardless of norms or comparisons, and he wondered if that was what the four-letter word was, when you saw straight down into someone with that kind of clarity.

How different Evan must have appeared in the eyes of the man who was his father. And how different Jacob Baridon had appeared to Evan, with the touch of jaundice in his face and traces of yellow on his teeth. All the human flaws rendered through Evan’s OCD, which was powerful enough to drive his whole terrible life but not powerful enough to overcome the purity with which he saw Joey. Joey of the trail of potato chips. Joey of the constantly replenishing mess. Joey of the spilled Dr Pepper and bare feet on his desktop. Joey of the too-loud laugh, the stray hairs in the sink, the heap of dirty laundry. Joey of the blow-the-doors-off-the-car radiance, the twisty wondrous brain. Joey the fierce, proud, vulnerable young woman.

She pinched her lower lip with her teeth, staring down. “What?” An accusation.

Evan said, “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the worst, too.” She started off. “I’ll see you in the Vault when you’re done trying to work out.”

“Trying?”

“I hear you grunting with them handstand push-ups,” she threw back over her shoulder. “Little-boy grunts like you’re trying to pull on your socks for the first time.”

And she was gone.