Nestor grunted by way of amused agreement.
But then a different sound caught my attention. Some rustling in the bushes around the side of the house, followed by footsteps. It someone like someone had just climbed out the window.
I nodded for Kent to go check it out, but before he could, a kid came storming up the driveway from the back, clutching a backpack. I could tell from one look at his face that he was fleeing this house, and most likely the arguing inside.
He was sniffling, and his cheeks were pink, face lined with a displeased scowl. The kid couldn’t have been more than thirteen, pale skin and platinum blonde hair dyed faded blue at the tips, like the color had grown out. Interestingly enough, though, hisemotionswere the most radiant of his features. A depression so fervent it was visibly stressing him out.
The three of us were just staring at him, wondering if he had anything to do with the man I was there to confront. My bet was yes, but I didn’t know for sure. Not until he noticed us, and stopped.
He stood still in the middle of his driveway, staring at me; this sort of doe-eyed expression on his face until his gaze fell to the gun in my hand. His expression grew grim, while still not showing anyshockorpanic.
As if men showing up at his house with guns drawn wasn’t all that surprising to him.
“C-can I… help you?” He asked me, tightening his grip on the strap of his backpack.
I offered him a sharp grin. “As a matter of fact, you can.” I flicked my gun toward the door. “I’m here to see someone about an occupational hiccup… But I can’t seem to get his attention. Can you tell me if Alexander Reznikov is in there?”
I witnessed the mound of the kid’s throat dip as he gawked at me for a few more seconds, likely trying to decide if he should lie. But he seemed smart enough to know better.
“He’s… a little busy right now,” he sighed, almost like the mere act of speaking was draining him of all his energy.
“I’ll say,” I replied, tucking my gun back into my belt. Coming down the steps, I wandered closer to the kid. “Do your parents always fight like that?”
He blinked up at me before nodding, rather solemnly.
“What are they fighting about?” I kept my voice calmly inquisitive.
“My mother’s not… feeling well,” he mumbled. Then he blinked hard and shook his head. “Never mind. Why are you here again?” Regaining a bit of his confidence.
“Work.”
“What kind of work?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is. You’re at my house.” He cocked his head, gaze narrowing.
I liked the attitude on thischiquito triste.
Smirking, I mirrored his expression. “What’s your name, kid?”
As the question left my lips, the front door swung open, a man standing there, hardened glare assessing the situation.
“Dascha, go inside the house,” the man commanded the boy firmly.
The kid, clearly Alexander’s son, gave me one last look before scurrying past us up the stoop. The man stepped outside, watching him with protective worry in his eyes.
He stopped in the doorway. “Papa, is everything—”
“Now, Dascha. Go to your room and lock the door, and do not come out until I say so, da?”
Alexander Reznikov gave his son a look, and my brow raised. It wasn’t a reprimanding look from a stern father, per se. It was almost like an instruction hidden within the words. Like a code.
Twenty bucks says that kid’s got a gun hidden in his room somewhere.
The boy—Dascha Reznikov—nodded and slipped inside the house without another word. And then his father turned to me, features hardening with rage.
“You are The Ivory?”
