7. Brick

Well, fuck.

My stomach churned as the Uber I rode in swayed gently and rounded a corner.

It smelled like a vanilla air freshener had exploded all over the interior, and the alcohol in my stomach didn’t mix any better with the pungent aroma than it did the constant backseat rocking. Or the memory of her words that jostled their way unpleasantly through my head.

I’m going to find the evidence I need to prove without a doubt that you’re him.

“Dammit.” With a groan, I flopped my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes, holding my belly and hoping nothing I’d drunk tonight came back up. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

“Hey, you okay back there, buddy?” I was asked.

I lifted my head woozily and opened my lashes, trying to focus on the back of my driver’s head.

“Just great,” I slurred. “But hey. Do you happen to have a basement?”

“A bathroom?”

“A basement,” I tried to clarify, but even I could hear the slur in my speech.

“A basement? What?” The bald-headed man whose neck was about as