“No,” Ransom said shortly. Then, when he realized I was squirming in my seat, desperate for a distraction, he added, “Counterintelligence.”
“Look at you, Mr. FancyPants.”
“It’s a long word for a very broad department. Anything you have to break in your head into two separate words to write is considered extravagant.”
Well, I couldn’t write it if you gave me five hours and three dictionaries.
“Must’ve been dangerous.” I watched him intently. Not a muscle in his face moved. Treading carefully, I added, “Your family must’ve been worried for you.”
“I suppose they would have.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have a family.”
“You mean you don’t talk to them.” And I thoughtIhad a flair for dramatics. Everyone had a family, came from somewhere.
“I mean they are not inexistence.” A flicker of irritation passed on his face, but his tone remained flat and calm.
“So how did you come to be?” I arched a skeptic eyebrow. “Test tube baby?”
“Obviously, biologically, I was created by Jane and John Doe. But I have no clue who they are. One of them left me in a shoebox at the door of some church in rural Illinois. I was two hours old and still had an umbilical cord dangling from the cardboard. People who passed by thought I was a lost kitten, because I could barely cry anymore, my voice was so hoarse. At least it had been tied off, so I hadn’t bled out.”
“You’re kidding me.” I sucked in a breath.
“My humor’s not much, but it’s better thanthat.”
I’d never met anyone with such a tragic life story. I felt physically ill with sorrow for him. I also wondered what the heck had come over him, to make him open up to me like that. Then I remembered I probably looked white as a sheet and nervous from my impending showdown with the people who’d createdme.
And perhaps also this teeny, tiny mishap about me catching him acting out a semi-public, semi-violent sexual fantasy.
Ransom needed to win some humanity points with me right now, and, the robot that he was, this was how he chose to do it.
“Wow.” I let out a breath. “I must really look like I need a distraction, if you decided to sharethiswith me.”
“Not a pile.” He flicked the indicator. “Maybe a small mound.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Ransom. What an awful beginning to your life.”
“I survived.”
“Were you adopted?” I swallowed.
“Yes,” he hesitated, as if contemplating whether to tell me more. “The family’s name was Moruzzi. They were well-off. Lived by Lincoln Park. Jack Moruzzi adopted three of us. All boys. But…well, let’s just say it wasn’t a childhood full of Scouts and summer camps.”
“Did he ever…?” I sucked in a breath. Were his fantasies prompted by being abused before? He’d said he’d experienced trauma. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I wanted to try what Ransom was offering by opening up.
But by the way he bristled, flooring the accelerator, I gathered the conversation was over.
“Point is, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Brat. We all have a story, and it’s rarely a fairy tale.”
The way he cut me off, so abruptly, made me want to strike back.
“Does Max have a story?”
Ransom’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing over the road. “Do I look like his biographer? Ask him yourself. He’s supposed to arrive on a later flight tonight and will be covering for me whenever I’ll be away.”
“Why would you be away?” Did he know anyone in Texas? He seemed to know his way around these roads.