Page 135 of Antihero

“You have no idea.”

He’d clasped his hands on his knees, worrying one thumb with the other. He stilled. He hated giving up nonverbal tells. He did not like Anca in the other room behind a closed door. He did not want to look at Naomi. He felt wildly out of control.

He wondered why.

Naomi stayed in her armchair, legs arranged in an ankle-on-thigh position, hands motionless on the armrest. Patient.

He appreciated that.

He cleared his throat. Started to speak. Stopped.

Finally he said, “She asked for help. She was in public. On a subway full of people. And no one cared. Not one person.”

Naomi said, “I know.”

“She had a fucking sign around her neck asking for help.”

Naomi said, “I know.”

“They dragged her through city streets past hundreds of people.”

Naomi said, “I know.”

He was flicking at his thumbnail with the middle finger of the same hand. He stopped.

“They shot her with fentanyl to keep her down longer.”

“I know.”

“After, she walked from Harlem to the Bronx.”

“I know.”

“That’s over four miles.”

“I know.”

“They took her wallet. No subway card. She didn’t have money for a cab. So she walked. Four miles. Know what she told me?” Beside them the fire popped pleasingly. At last, he lifted his gaze to meet Naomi’s. “‘No one would help.’”

Naomi leaned forward. Set a hand on his knee.

She said, “I know.”

“What does that say about them? Us. What does that say about us?”

Templeton rolled her pale lips, contemplated. “That we have a lot of work to do. But look at us here, making it right. Look at us. Here.”

They sat in silence, their thoughts punctuated by the crackle of logs.

Naomi walked them back out to the Mercedes, thanked Anca, and closed the door behind her. Then she came around to face Evan by the hood.

“She did great,” Naomi said. “We’ll track them down.”

“I’ll get there first,” Evan said.

Naomi studied him. “And you’ll leave them for us?”

“Yes.”