by S. B. Caves
He was feeling very good about the beer and the steak he would order when his waitress returned. He looked over the dessert menu with great interest. He was quite sure about the chocolate brownie, but the apple pie looked pretty fantastic too. You know what? He was seriously considering getting both. Why worry?
He heard his waitress greet a new customer and briefly looked up from the menu, ready to grab her attention when she was done.
And that’s when he saw him.
Jack’s back arched against the chair. He gripped the edge of the table, his throat slowly closing until it felt like he was trying to breathe through a straw.
A man stood by the doorway with his young son. The waitress was asking him where he wanted to sit and the man looked down at his son and said, ‘What do you think, Oliver? The booth over there looks good, doesn’t it?’
Jack dug his nails into the table. His heart palpitated painfully. He grabbed his beer, gulped, and rolled the glass across his forehead in an effort to cool his flaming skin. He plunged his hand into his pocket and touched the folding knife. Thank god he hadn’t forgotten it.
His appetite, which had been ravenous just a couple of minutes ago, had vanished. He had to do something quickly. He watched the waitress take their drinks order and disappear off to the kitchen.
I hope you never find him.
Jack’s scalp prickled. His scrotum tightened around his testicles, sending a ticklish, almost unbearable sensation crawling through his thighs. The beer swished sickeningly in his stomach and the aftertaste was like battery acid in his mouth.
He eased the chair back and stood up. His legs felt like he had drunk five pints instead of half of one. He watched the man talking to his son as they looked over the menu, and slowly began walking toward their booth.
Upon noticing him approach, the man gradually looked up from the menu to see Jack standing there, sweating and shaking before him.
The man’s green eyes flashed at him. Jack cringed and looked at his son, who also had the same reptilian eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, his brow creasing with concern.
Jack forced his face to smile, but felt the grin twitch unnaturally on his lips.
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘I feel like I know you from somewhere.’
The man considered it for less than a second before shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t recognise me?’ Jack asked.
‘No,’ the man replied, firmer this time.
‘I see.’ He glanced at little Oliver, who was staring up at Jack with a queer sort of nervous curiosity. ‘This your son?’
‘Yes,’ the man said sharply.
‘You look too young to have a son this age. What are you now, thirty? Thirty-one?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the man began warily. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ What could possibly be wrong? Jack thought. He put his hand in his pocket and held the knife. ‘Nothing wrong. I just feel like I know you from somewhere.’
‘Well, like I said—’
‘You’ve got unmistakeable eyes. I bet lots of people tell you that.’
‘No, not really. We’re actually trying to order our food, so if you wouldn’t mind…’ His green eyes narrowed.
This time I know it’s you, Jack thought.
‘Of course,’ Jack said, the words wobbling out of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
Jack made his way over to where the waitress was standing. He apologised, said he wasn’t feeling very well, and asked if he could settle up for the beer.
Then he left the restaurant, headed back to his van, and waited for the man to finish his meal. He would follow the man, find out where he lived, where his son went to school. He would learn the man’s routine, and then, when the time was right, he would take him. Maybe he would get May involved. Yes, he thought she might be ready for it, would probably even get a kick out of it. And he’d need the help too, if he was going to pull it off without a hitch. It wasn’t like the old days when his back was stronger.
So he had been wrong about Craig Morley. Jack rewound the tape in his mind, thought back to when he had first spotted him that day in the supermarket, and then began to laugh. He shook his head, thought the laughter had subsided, and then began cracking up again, his stomach muscles tightening painfully. When was the last time he had laughed like this? He couldn’t remember.
Poor Craig Morley. Well, Jack had made a mistake; what else could he say? It wasn’t the first time he had got it wrong, but practice made perfect. He was only human.
He supposed he owed Emily an apology.
The last giggles slithered out of him, and he turned his mind to more serious business: the man in the steakhouse. The man who, twelve years ago, shattered Jack’s life into a million pieces. He had grown up to be quite the respectable gentleman, hadn’t he? The fancy clothes, the almost unbearable politeness, and he had a handsome young son. He’d had twelve years to perfect his act, denying all recognition of Jack right to his face.
The audacity and cunning of the man amazed Jack as much as it upset him.
But Jack knew the truth. It was all a veneer and he could see right through it.
Because the eyes never lie.
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to my agent Tom Witcomb and all the team at Canelo for your invaluable guidance and support throughout the whole publishing process.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © S.B. Caves, 2019
The moral right of S.B. Caves to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788636629
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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