Simonâ€¦ Curiosity over the kidâ€™s motherâ€™s name brushed faintly across the back of his mind, but it didnâ€™t matter. He would call her Lynn; they were all Lynnâ€¦<br/><br/>There was no real danger here. It was the father that heâ€™d been concerned about anyway. Little boys and surprised middle aged women didnâ€™t usually put up too fierce a fight. Osmund slipped his hand out of his pocket, away from the syringe.<br/><br/>In order to get a better look at the kid, he pushed the brim of his hat up with his thumb. Dark eyes in a narrow face were underneath. He wore glasses â€“ not tonight, theyâ€™d have been in the way â€“ so he had to squint. â€œHello Simon, Iâ€™m Knox. Are you hungry? Iâ€™m always hungry afterwardâ€¦â€ he smiled thinly and jabbed a thumb at the bodies. â€œAnd we should go pretty soon.â€<br/><br/>A thought occurred to him that hadnâ€™t in a long time. This kid could be an elegant solution to a very inelegant problem. Plus, heâ€™d always wanted an heir, so to speak, but was never going to have kids of his own. Simon reminded him of himself when he was just a tyke. â€œYou go get in my truck. Itâ€™s the company truck, parked on the street, around on the other side of the block. Youâ€™ll know which one.â€<br/><br/>When he wanted to, Osmund could smile sweetly and charm the birds from the trees. He tried that now, acting friendly and as if this was entirely normal, even though he was disappointed and a little bit angry. â€œIâ€™ll get you clothes that arenâ€™t bloody, okay Simon? I wonâ€™t hurt you, and you can even keep the knife to make sure, deal?â€