Chapter 8Xavier’s mug had made the rounds. Four-dozen people hadn’t seen the teen, so they claimed. I tended to believe them, save for a young sun-burnished guy with a runny nose and bruised forehead. Licorice-black eyes shifted while scabby lips and blistered fingers twitched, and a hesitant hissy “ain’t seen the kid, auntie” didn’t ring true. It had been tempting to press the issue, but who knew how he’d react? Cursing and screaming was manageable; a physical attack was something else. I didn’t have a weapon and while I could probably get in a good swift whack and kick, I wasn’t willing to check out just how far my defense skills could go.
Discouraged, I ambled a few blocks west of the walk-in clinic. I sighted a long narrow diner freshly painted kumquat orange that looked quaint in its
