"Or . . . you can keep this secret a secret."
After looking at Castillo for a full ten seconds, Randolph J. Richardson IV's face contorted. He blurted, "I have to piss."
Castillo pointed toward the bathroom door, and the boy ran to it.
They heard the door close, then the unmistakable sound of him being nauseated.
Castillo looked at Svet.
"Jesus H. Christ," he said softly.
"How much of what you said to him was true?" she replied as softly.
"I don't know, baby. I don't even know what I said, or where it came from; my mouth was on autopilot."
She ran the balls of her fingers down his cheek.
They heard the sound of water running for a long time, and when Randy came out, his new T-shirt was almost soaking wet.
He didn't make it to the john before he threw up; he fouled himself.
Then washed the shirt.
What have I done?
"Want to borrow a shirt?" Castillo asked.
"If I did that, my father would ask what happened to this one," the boy replied logically. "If I keep it on, it will dry pretty quick."
"Makes sense. Your call."
The boy met his eyes.
"If you're really such an all-around sonof--bastard, as you say you are, why should I believe anything you said?"
"I guess that's your call, too, Randy," Castillo said evenly.
Randy considered that, then nodded once.
"I guess, even after everything, I don't think you're a liar."
"Well, counting Abuela, Max, and Svetlana, that's three of you against the rest of the world."
"Is that your real name? Svetlana?"
"Yes, it is."
He looked back at Castillo. "You going to tell me what's going on around here?"
"No."
"I should have known that the story of you getting kicked out of the Army was bullshit."
"Why?"
"Grandfather Wilson, when you started showing up at Abuela's house when I was there, said I should never ask you what you do in the Army. He said you couldn't talk about it, that you were an intelligence officer. He said that General McNab told him you were the best one he'd ever known."
It took Castillo a good fifteen seconds to find his voice.