ahead, continues eating. Annie appears to be telling Derek off when one of Derek’s friends makes a V
with his fingers, puts it to his lips, and waggles his tongue through the gap.
Benny walks over at a quick pace. When he reaches the table, he stumbles like he’s tripped over his own feet, and his food tray lands flat on Derek’s chest.
Derek jumps back, his shirt covered in slop and spilled milk. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry,” Benny says, looking down at Derek. “I tripped.”
Benny sits at the table next to Artemis, his back to Derek, not a worry in the world.
Donnie grips his tray, ready to swing it at Derek and his friends if they go after Benny, but instead they leave in a hurry. Donnie smiles at that, puffs out his chest, then sits on the other side of the table next to Annie, across from Artemis and Benny.
Arty sits calmly, the dollop of mashed potatoes still stuck to his cheek. He doesn’t react to things like other people.
Donnie slides his tray to the center of the table, signaling to Benny that they can share Donnie’s lunch, since Derek’s now wearing Benny’s.
They sit in silence for a while. Like they’re all wondering when life will take a turn for them.
When they won’t be the outcasts, when they won’t have to face the indignities of the lunchroom, when they won’t have to go to bed worried about closing their eyes, when they’ll have families again.
Nico shows up at the table, no lunch tray in hand. “I went to the office. They said Marta was called in sick.”
“Sick? She wasn’t in her room this morning,” Annie says. “Who would call…” She lets the question die.
Nico says, “How many is that now, Arty?”
“What do you mean?” Arty says.
“How many girls gone since we’ve been at the house?”
Nico and Artemis are the longest tenants at Savior House, and Arty’s the obvious mathematician of the pair.
Arty thinks about this. “Six.”
“Six damn runaways in three years?” Donnie asks.
Annie says, “How do we know they’re runaways?”
“It’s the most logical answer,” Arty says. “I talked to Mr. Jones and he called the foster care office and was told they looked into everything.”
Mr. Jones is a retired computer company executive who’s helping Arty with his coding projects, probably the only nice grown-up in any of their lives. Not that they repay him for the kindness: The kids all call him Ned Flanders because of his resemblance to the character on The Simpsons.
“Nobody ever talked to me,” Ben says. “What kind of investigation is it if no one ever asked us any questions?”
While Arty may be a genius, the next Thomas Edison or something, Benny’s the truly smart one.
Book and street smart, like that O.J. lawyer he admires, or the bald lawyer on The Practice.
“You sure we can trust Flanders?” Benny asks. “He and Mr. Brood are friends.”
Artemis says, “They’re not friends. Mr. Jones says that the state should shut down Savior House, that Mr. Brood only has the job because of his family.”
Everyone knows that the Broods are what passes for a political dynasty in corrupt, small-town Chestertown. Mr. Brood’s father was its longtime mayor, a position now held by Brood’s brother.
Arty continues, “Mr. Jones is in Men’s Club with the Broods, but he’s not friends with Mr.
Brood.”
“What about that French lady?” Annie says. “Arty, you said one of the others disappeared after the lady met with Mr. Brood. She was here the other day. We saw her.” Annie looks at Nico, who nods.
Arty finally wipes away the mashed potatoes with a paper napkin. “It’s unusual,” he concedes.
“It’s all B.S., is what it is,” the voice says. It’s the new girl, Jenna. She’s at the far end of the table. Donnie didn’t even see her there. She has a way of blending in that’s strange.
Ben sits up straight, tightens his jaw. “We gotta figure this shit out.”
“Ya think?” Nico says, in that way of his.
Donnie is about to ask, How? What could they possibly do? They’re just kids.
Arty says, “I’ll ask Mr. Jones to call the foster care people again.”
“We need to do it soon,” Jenna says. “Before another one of us disappears.”
By late afternoon, Donnie checks in to his room at the Fontainebleau, pleased to find his luggage already in the suite. He riffles through his suitcase for something to wear. He’s meeting with a writer, not something he does every day. He considers wearing his one shirt with a collar but opts instead for a concert tee, denim jacket, and ripped jeans. The guy might as well know what he’s getting into. He needs to shake off thinking about Savior House, about Benny, about all of it.
At a stand-up table at the Hakkasan Bar & Lounge, looking out of place amid the tanned beautiful people of Miami Beach, is a pasty guy in a button-up shirt. Maybe Donnie should’ve worn the collar.
The man looks timidly at Donnie and raises a hand. Stands.
On closer inspection, he looks less like a writer than a figure skater or ballroom dancer. He has a thin frame, hair that touches his shoulders, and a handsome, angular face.
“Mr. Danger,” he says, sticking out his hand. First the FBI, now this guy. Donnie hasn’t been called mister this much in years, or ever.
“Mr. Danger’s my dad,” Donnie says, instinctively carting out the rock-star persona. “Not that I ever met that son of a bitch.” He barks a laugh. “Call me Donnie.”
“Hi, Donnie, I’m Reeves Rothschild.”
“Reeves Rothschild,” Donnie repeats, amused. “Sounds like royalty. I feel like I should bow or something.”
“A handshake works,” Reeves says.
They shake and sit. A waitress with a tight blouse and piercings crawling up her ear asks if they want anything to drink. Donnie thinks on it—maybe just one; it’s been a helluva week, after all.
“I’ll have a Car Bomb.”
The waitress looks confused, then realizes it must be a drink. She nods, looks to Reeves. He hesitates. “I’ll have the same.”
This makes Donnie smile.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Reeves says. “It’s amazing you’re already out of the hospital. Are you feeling better?”
“I’ve got a nasty bump on the head, but otherwise, good as new.” There’s an awkward silence.
Donnie finally says, “So they say you wanna write my story.”
“I do.” The kid says it like he almost means it.
“Now why in the hell would you wanna do that?” Donnie asks with a crooked smile.
Reeves gives his own sideways grin, acknowledging that maybe this isn’t the Great American Novel he’s always envisioned.
The waitress arrives with two tall glasses of Guinness, and two shots of Jameson mixed with Baileys Irish Cream.
Reeves has a bemused expression.
“Tell me about yourself,” Donnie says, making a show of holding up the shot glass and dropping the liquor into the glass of stout. He quickly chugs the beer before the cream curdles. “Where’re you from, Reeves?”