Page 172 of Broken Lines

Alice smiles curiously.

“She’s here, and she’s almost done.”

“Done with what?”

Her grin widens.

“Practicing.”

“Practicing what—”

The guitar over the speaker in the other room stops. And suddenly it clicks as my eyes widen.

Holy fuck.

That wasn't a Stevie Ray Vaughn live recording. That was someoneactuallyplaying. I stare at Alice.

“Oh, fuck off—”

“Mom?” A voice calls out from somewhere in the house above us.

“I'm in the kitchen, hon! Come on down. I want you to meet someone.”

Alice sits back on her stool, sipping her tea as we listen to footsteps crashing down the staircase. And then suddenly I hear sneakers on the kitchen floor. I turn, and my eyes blink as I stare at a carbon fucking copy of my best friend.

Well, almost.

A carbon copy without the receding hairline. And with her mother’s auburn hair and blue eyes. But Goddamn, it's like a twelve-year-old Iggy staring at me with that same funny smile and a look of bewildered recognition on her face.

“You’re…you’re Jackson Havoc.”

I grin.

“And you're a clone of your dad. Well, minus the ugly bits. You can thank your mom for that input.”

Eleanor grins, but then her brow furrows.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Eleanor!” Alice hisses.

But I just grin back at my goddaughter.

“I kind of thought I was too, for a while. But I'm figuring out how to be alive again.”

She shifts on her feet.

“Was that you playing?”

She nods.

“You're pretty fucking goo—” I clear my throat as she giggles. “I mean, you’re pretty good.”

“It’s okay, you can swear. I’m not a kid, and mom does all the time.”

I chuckle as I glance back to see Alice burying her face in her hands.

“I have no doubt about that.”