City of Saints & Thieves(41)

Boyboy nods. “I’d bet my Birkin on it.”

“And are there any records of these weapons going to militias? Or gold buys? Anything else about Kasisi?”

“No, not yet.”

My smile fades. “Nothing?”

“This isn’t nothing!” He humphs, waving at his screen.

“You’re right,” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry. Does Bug Eye or Ketchup know about this?”

“No, they have no idea what I’m doing. I told them I haven’t been able to decrypt anything yet.”

“Good. But they know we didn’t get everything and I have to go back in.”

“Yeah.”

I start to stand to go check on Michael, but Boyboy puts a hand on my arm. “Tina, listen, this is getting complicated. Forget the video. You know who killed your mom. Maybe we should just cut our losses. I’ll find some other way to hack into Greyhill’s bank accounts. You don’t have to go back there.”

“I— No. We need everything. This isn’t enough to bring Mr. G down.”

Boyboy gives me a long, searching look. “Are you starting to doubt he killed her?”

I stand up. “No. I just . . . We have time. Bug Eye’s given us a week.”

Boyboy still looks dubious. “I don’t like it.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I-I can’t force you to keep working. Do you want out? I can tell Bug Eye something.”

He snorts. “And who exactly is going to decrypt Mr. G’s files?”

I don’t answer. He knows I don’t have anyone else who can do what he does.

He sighs, digs in his bag, and pulls out a new USB adapter. “Don’t lose this one. I don’t have any more, and making another will take a week.”

“And he has my earpiece.”

“You don’t need the earpiece if you’re not doing acrobatics to get in. Just use your phone like normal. The USB connects directly to it.”

I slip the adapter into my pocket. “Midnight tonight. I’ll tell Bug Eye to drive you up. And I’ll try to make sure he leaves Ketchup at home.”

Boyboy looks relieved. “Good.”

I shift from foot to foot. “And . . . thank you. For everything.”

Boyboy just clears his throat, looking past me. “Hello, gorgeous,” he says under his breath.

I turn to see Michael pushing himself up and over the lip of the elevator shaft. “Finally,” I say.

He wipes his brow on his shirtsleeve. “They have these things called stairs, you know.”

“Tiny doesn’t like folks crawling into her nest. Makes it damn near impossible,” Boyboy says. “She blocked off the stairs. Took me months before I could get up here in under a half hour.”

“Wait. Nest? Do you live here?” Michael asks me.

I give Boyboy a dirty look.

For a second I can see my home through Michael’s eyes: the rough concrete-block walls with gaping holes where windows and doors should be. Tattered plastic sheeting hung like curtains on the east side to keep the rain out. A grimy mattress, a small gas cylinder stove. My stack of stolen paperback books in one corner, fat with damp. A laundry line. Nothing on the walls. Dirt in the corners.

I shouldn’t care what he thinks—it’s not like he was invited. But something about the way he’s looking around makes me feel naked. I can tell he doesn’t see the amazing view of the city, or that I’m safe here. All he sees through his rich-boy eyes is a poor refugee girl living in a filthy, half-finished building.

“Not all of us can afford the Ring,” I say.

“It is a penthouse,” Boyboy offers. “Or it could be one day.”

“No, I just mean, well . . .” Michael seems at a loss. “All by yourself?”

“Yes.”

He gapes for another few seconds, then seems to come to his senses. He walks to Boyboy and sticks out his hand. If Boyboy’s manner and outfit throw him, he at least has the good breeding not to say anything. “You must be, ah, Boyboy. I’m Michael Greyhill.”

“I know who you are, habibi,” Boyboy says to Michael, taking his hand briefly.

“So,” Michael says, looking at Boyboy’s computer, suddenly all business. “That’s where all the dirt on my dad is?”

Boyboy gives me an alarmed look. Michael eyes the computer, then the open hole of a window. Boyboy, seeing where this is going, hugs his computer to his chest. “I have copies! Don’t touch Priscilla!”

I step between the two of them. “Easy there, Mikey. Like you keep reminding me, we have a deal.”

Michael doesn’t move. His face twists. There is something dark there that makes my blood run cold. “What did you find?” he asks.

“I, ah, haven’t had time to decrypt everything yet,” Boyboy says, his voice squeaking.

“It takes a while.” I grab Michael’s arm and try to pull him. It’s like trying to pull a tree. “He’ll keep us informed on his progress. Come on. You’ve met Boyboy. Now we should go. It’s getting late, and your mother is going to be livid.”

Michael looks between the two of us, and for a few very uncomfortable seconds it feels like he’s reading my mind. “Tina, if you’re lying about actually having the data from my dad’s hard drive . . .”