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The boy’s name doesn’t come up in a search. No social media. No records.
But the kid’s name is Eastern European, if not Russian. What are the odds? How does a British guy have no family left but one child who happens to be Eastern European?
Adrenalin tingles in my nerves, making me restless.
I punch his deceased wife’s name in the search engine, then put in ‘Great Britain’ to narrow it down.
The article that comes up first is about her and her toddler daughter burned in a house fire. Fourteen years ago.
Wait-wait-wait.
So the same year he had a child with a different name, he also had his legit wife and daughter burn down in a fire.
You don’t need to be a psychic to sense something sketchy about the story.
I go to O’Shea’s file on the computer. All digital records are cross-referenced with the days of enrollment, the country they came from, and contractor info.
He came with another guy, and I pull up the guy’s file.
Brandon Cunningham. Thirty-four. 5’7.
His file doesn’t have anything suspicious. Nothing to tie him with O’Shea except that he worked as private security. Also in UAE… Right, the Emirates. I check the years of employment there—the same as O’Shea’s.
I email the digital copies of the files to Dad with the comment about O’Shea’s surviving son.
Too excited to hold the news to myself, I call Marlow.
34
KAT
I’d never thoughtthat the nostalgia about the normal times would be triggered by shopping and takeouts.
I’ve been doing takeouts occasionally. But I ordered a whole bunch of groceries delivered from Port Mrei and cook in the evenings. Cooking reminds me of home. Takeouts—of before the Change.
Marlow comes over every now and then, digging into my food ferociously like he’s been in prison.
“What, girls on this island don’t cook?” I chuckle every time, watching him eat.
“Honestly—” he tries to talk with his mouth full.
“Dude, swallow, then talk.” I laugh though feel proud he enjoys my simple cooking so much.
Marlow is my best buddy here on Zion, and by the looks of it, besides him sitting on the phone with Ty or driving an ATV to the Eastside in the evenings to go see the Outcasts now that it’s not an issue, he doesn’t really hang out much with anyone else.
“Shit gets old,” he said the other day. “You are like a breath of fresh air here. Plus, I’m watching you.”
“Oh, really?” I feign surprise, and he winks.
Tonight, I offer another dinner. Instead, Marlow suggests going to Tapas, a fusion cuisine restaurant and a hot spot. “Let’s hang out in the bar tonight.”
I’m all for it, and in twenty minutes, he drops by.
“Oh, look at you,” he says, openly studying me as he leans on the doorway, hands in his pockets. “If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought this was a date.”
I snort. “Keep dreaming.”
I’m just messing with him, though I liked the compliment.
