The stare.
For everything Jack Leary loved about his granddaughter, that stare when she got serious about something, and the determination behind it, was in the stratosphere above the rest.
Lily sat across the antique mahogany table, something Susan had just had delivered, certificate of authenticity still sitting on the wet bar that overlooked the Pacific. A ring of sweat still stained the collar of her Pacifica Elite Girls U-12 shirt.
She was staring at him.
“Grandma likes to tell a story, Pops…”
“Grandma likes to tell all the stories, Lily. They're always interesting, and most of ‘em are true.”
“Pretty sure this one is true.”
“She says you didn’t believe you’d make it out of Brine…Bri…”
“Brightmoor. The old neighborhood. No. I mean, I thought I’d make it out, but in a hearse.”
Jack Leary held out his prosthetic left hand. It was the one that resembled a real human hand, custom-made by a friend of the team doctor of the soccer team he co-owned.
He hadn’t mastered the use of it yet, but company was coming and Susan insisted. Jack preferred the hook for both utility and effect.
“I almost didn’t. This was a warning. I took it.”
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