For the first time in memory, Evan slept in. “Slept” wasn’t quite right, as he was awake at five. But he lay in bed until nine, staring at the ceiling, his mind re-forming around what he had witnessed, like a starfish digesting prey.
At one point he sat up and tried to meditate, but every breath was punctuated not with mindfulness but a red flare of rage.
Finally he went and took a shower. He soaped his right hand and ran it up and down the tile, leaning his weight into the arm to stretch his shoulder. It had been recently injured, and he didn’t want the tendons and ligaments to freeze up.
Afterward he got dressed. Each bureau drawer held stacks of identical items of clothing: dark jeans, gray V-necked T-shirts, black sweatshirts. This morning in particular, it was a relief to move on autopilot, to not make any decisions. Clipping a Victorinox watch fob to his belt loop, he padded down the hall into the kitchen.
The refrigerator held a jar of cocktail olives, a stick of butter, and two vials of Epogen, an anemia med that stimulated the production of red blood cells in the event of a bad bleed. Three contingency saline bags stared back at him from the meat drawer.
His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in almost a day. His brain reminded him to make a sweep of his various safe houses scattered across L.A. County to take in the mail, change the automated lighting, alter the curtain and blind positions.
He had never wanted to leave his condo less.
There is nothing you could ever do to make me give up that boy.
Behind his front door, he took a deep breath, preparing himself to transition modes. Here at Castle Heights, he was Evan Smoak, importer of industrial cleaning products. Boring by design. He was fit but not noticeably muscular. Neither tall nor short. Just an average guy, not too handsome.
The only person who knew that he was not who he seemed was Mia Hall, the single mother in 12B. She had a light scattering of freckles across her nose and a birthmark on her temple that looked like it had been applied by a Renaissance painter. Because all that wasn’t complicated enough, she was also a district attorney. When it came to Evan’s work, they had settled on an unspoken and uncomfortable policy of don’t ask, don’t tell.
He pressed his forehead to the door, summoning greater resolve.
He’s the best part of me.
He stepped out into the hall, got on the elevator.
On the way down, the car stopped and Lorilee Smithson, 3F, swept in. “Evan. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Always so formal.”
The third wife to an affluent older gentleman who had recently left her, Lorilee was a vigorous practitioner of cosmetic surgery and body sculpting. She’d been beautiful once, that much was clear, but it was increasingly unnerving how her forehead remained frozen in an approximation of surprise no matter what the rest of her features were doing. She was fifty years old. Or seventy.
She wove her arm through Evan’s and gave it a girlfriendy shake. “There’s a craft class right now—scrapbooking. You should really come. Preserve those childhood memories.”
He looked at her. She had three new lines radiating out from her eyes, faint wrinkles in the shiny skin. They looked pretty. They made her face look lived in. Next week they’d be gone, her face ratcheted even tighter, a tomato about to burst.
He contemplated the least number of syllables he could make that would get her to stop talking.
He said, “I’m not really a big scrapbooker.”
She squeezed his arm in hers. “C’mon. You have to try new things. At least that’s what I’m doing. I’m going through a transition right now, as you might have heard.”
Evan had heard but had absolutely no idea how to reply to her. Was this one of those times that people said, “I’m sorry”? Wasn’t that a stupid thing to tell someone whose asshole husband had left her? “It’ll get easier” sounded equally platitudinous.
Fortunately, Lorilee wasn’t much for silences. “I’m getting out there again, you know? Been seeing a new guy—a wedding photographer. But it’s hard to tell if he really likes me for me or if he just likes my money.”
She pursed her inflated lips and gave his arm another little shake.
He patted her wrist, using the gesture as subterfuge to disentangle himself from her. But when he did, his hand came away powdery with tan dust. He looked down at her arm and saw the bruise marks she’d tried to conceal. Three finger-size marks from where someone had grabbed her.
She covered her arm with her purse, looked away self-consciously. “He’s okay,” she said. “You know how those artist types are. Temperamental.”
Evan had no reply for that.
It was none of his business. He thought of Jack walking into space as if stepping off a diving board. Evan needed to get food, and then he had people to kill.
Her smile returned, though it labored to reach her cheeks. “That’s why I’m scrapbooking. They say common interests are important.”
A sudden dread pooled in Evan’s gut. “Where did you say the scrapbooking class was?”
The elevator doors parted on the lobby to reveal a bustling crowd of Castle Heights residents massed around various craft tables that had been erected for the event.
Every head turned to take in Lorilee and Evan.
Evan made a snapshot count. Seventeen residents, including HOA president Hugh Walters. They all looked eager for small talk.
* * *
Evan finally made it into the subterranean parking garage, closed the door behind him, and was about to exhale with relief when he noticed Mia and her nine-year-old son sitting at the bottom of the stairs.
Mia shot him a tentative glance. He couldn’t blame her for looking hesitant. He’d gone to her last night, ready to leave behind his aliases and untraceable help line to see what it might be like to attempt a normal relationship. In the wake of Jack’s call, he had left her—and the conversation—hanging.
Peter craned his neck, his charcoal eyes staring up. “Hi, Evan Smoak.”
Evan said, “What’s new?”
Peter said, “Braces suck.”
“Language,” Mia said wearily.
“What’re you doing down here?” Evan asked.
“Mom’s hiding out from the scrapbooking lady.”
“That’s not true,” Mia said.
“Is too. You called her ‘pathologically chipper.’”
“Well, she is.” Mia’s hands fluttered, then landed in her chestnut curls, a show of exasperation. “And I just needed a moment away from … chipperness.”
Peter’s raspy voice took on a mournful note. “I wanted to see, is all. Plus, she had a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses.”
“Okay, okay,” Mia said. “Go ahead. I’ll be up in a sec.”
Peter scampered up the stairs, paused before Evan, gave a chimpanzee smile to show off the new hardware. “Do I have anything stuck in my braces?”
“Yeah,” Evan said. “Your teeth.”
Peter smirked. Then he fist-bumped Evan and shot through the door into the lobby.
Mia stood. She did a slow half turn, stretching her arms, letting them slap to her sides. “That was an odd conversation,” she said. “Last night.”
He came down the stairs. It was hard to be this close to her and not want to move even closer. She was the first person he’d ever met who’d made the notion of another life appealing. He’d had to overcome a lifetime of instinct and training to summon the courage to go to her door last night.
It felt like a decade ago.
He said, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not looking for an apology,” she said. “Just an explanation.”
Evan thought of a digital video camera hurtling around the cabin of a plummeting helicopter.
He cleared his throat, a rare nonverbal tell. “I’m afraid I can’t give one.”
She tilted her head. “You look terrible. Are you okay?”
That image flashed through his mind again: Jack stepping out of the Black Hawk, vanishing into the void. It seemed like a dream remnant, resonant and unreal.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are we gonna talk about what happened?”
“I can’t.”
“Because of whatever … things you’re into.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him more closely. In his childhood Evan had endured countless hours of training at the hands of psyops experts, training that involved brutal interrogation that lasted hours, sometimes days. To ensure he gave nothing away with his body language or facial expressions, they’d monitored everything down to his blink rate. And yet today emotion had left him loose and vulnerable. He felt as if Mia were looking right through his façade. He stood there, exposed.
“Whatever happened this time,” she said, “it hurt you.”
Evan locked down his face, held a steady gaze.
She gave a concerned nod. “Be careful.”
As he walked past, she caught him around the waist. She hauled him in and hugged him, and he felt himself tense. Her cheek was against his chest, her arms wrapped tight around the small of his back. He breathed her scent—lemongrass lotion, shampoo, a hint of perfume redolent of rain. He wanted to relax into her, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see was a Black Hawk spiraling out of control against a backdrop of stars.
He tore himself away and headed to his truck.