City of Saints & Thieves(11)

I check out my handcuffs. “They were supposed to be in Switzerland. I don’t know why he’s here.”

“The guards—back—posts. I don’t think—told about—” Boyboy says.

Bug Eye adds, “Looks—Michael is going—office.”

“He’ll be back soon.” Tucking my phone between my cheek and shoulder, I reach into my hair for a bobby pin.

“Don’t you say——nothin’ to—, Tiny,” Ketchup says.

I contort my fingers to get the bobby pin down to the handcuff’s keyhole. “Think I’m stupid? You know I won’t. Did you get anything off the hard drive, Boyboy?”

“What? Not sure yet——to process it.”

For a moment I think they’ve cut out. “Hello? Hello?” The pin flips out of my hands and drops to the ground.

Then I hear Bug Eye say, “Tiny, listen, we gotta——stay strong. We——Omoko’s counting on——”

“Wait,” I say. I’m having trouble getting a full breath. Are the walls moving closer? Don’t get excited, Tiny Girl. Breathe. “Boyboy?” My voice cracks.

I can’t hear anything but static. I let myself sink to the ground and pick up the pin. The floor is damp, and the coolness of it slides into my bones. My hands are too shaky to do the handcuff lock. I clamp them together between my knees, trying to still them.

For a second the line clears. “We’ll——when you’re out,” Bug Eye says.

I open my mouth to answer, but there’s a rush of static, and they’re gone.

? ? ?

Rule 7: It may be bad now, but you gotta remember you’ve been through worse and survived.

You have been left alone in the dark before. This is nothing. This is not that hole full of slick, sharp stones that bruise your bare feet. Things are not wiggling and dripping onto your shoulders.

This is not that night.

? ? ?

Michael takes his time coming back. When he does, it’s as a disembodied voice echoing from some unseen speaker in the walls.

“You took your handcuffs off.”

I look through the peephole, but it’s not meant for looking out. It’s made for looking in. “They clashed with my outfit.”

“Stand on the opposite side of the room.”

I don’t move.

“Go, Tina.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, and slowly back up. The door opens.

“Stay there,” Michael says. “Up against the wall.”

I glower at him, but do what he says. He’s brought a laptop—not Mr. Greyhill’s—and the gun. He puts a plastic bottle of water on the table and invites me with a gesture. Is there any way to turn it into a weapon? No. I grab it and chug the whole bottle. Michael watches me. I watch him.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Did you rat me out to the guards?”

“What are you doing here, Tina?”

Did he turn me in? I don’t think so, but I can’t know for sure. Maybe security guards are waiting in the tunnel. Michael’s face is a mask; it tells me nothing. At last, I shrug. “I was looking for cash, jewelry, whatever. I knew the house. It was an easy mark.”

“You were just robbing us.” Michael’s voice drips with incredulity. “You realize this place is a fortress, right? How did you even get in?”

When I stay quiet, he says, “Jesus, Tina, our guards don’t play. If you’re here, it’s not just ’cause you think there’s loose change in Dad’s desk drawers. They find you in there messing with his computer, and what are they going to think?”

“I was just looking around,” I repeat, but I know how I sound.

He digs in his pocket. “Just looking around? On his computer? And his hard drive? Are there files copied onto this thing?” He holds up the USB adapter.

Ketchup is right, I think with a sinking stomach. I’m so stupid. How could I get caught?

My nonanswer tells Michael all he needs to know. He glares at me for a moment longer, then slams his fist on the table, making me start. “Why, Tina? Why? You take off after the funeral, then no phone calls, no letters, nothing. I thought you were dead! And now you show up out of nowhere, and you . . .” He rubs his hand over his cropped hair, hard, like he can scratch the whole situation out of his mind. “You’ve got all these tattoos, and . . . are you a Goonda? Is that it? Are those Goonda tattoos?”

When I still don’t answer, he throws his hands up. “So you’re in a gang now, and that’s why you’re robbing us? Why would you do that? We’re . . . you’re . . .” He’s unable to go on, unable to put words to what he obviously sees as treason.

And I can’t stand it anymore.

“You want to know why?” I ask, launching up.

He grabs the gun and leaps to his feet too, and then I’m up in his face, never mind that the muzzle of the pistol is now inches from my heart. I don’t care. I’m beyond caring. I poke him hard in the chest to punctuate, “You. Want. To. Know. Why?”

Somewhere in my mind I am telling myself to stop. I know I should. I need to listen to Bug Eye and be cool, but it’s too late, it’s all spilling out now. I’ve spent too many years being quiet, biding my time, thinking, wondering, nursing the wounded animal in my chest back from death, feeding it, training it, grooming it, until it ripples with muscle, and its claws and teeth are diamond hard and razor sharp.