If You Could See the Sun (22)

I try to mimic his calm, his patience, start counting to sixty seconds in my head. I fight to keep my expression neutral, casual, to make it look like we’re only going over some particularly difficult homework questions together. Anything to ward off suspicions from passing students when this thing works.

If this works.

It’s true that news has a way of getting around in a school like ours, but could it really be that easy? That fast?

I only get to forty-five seconds when Henry’s phone buzzes. The blue ghost logo lights up, glowing in quick pulses as if in sync with my rapidly pounding heart. A notification flashes over the screen: One New Message.

Henry could not look any more pleased with himself. He nods at me to open it and I do, trying to ignore the shaky feeling in my bones, the terrifying knowledge that there’s no going back from this.

Immediately, a message from user C207 pops up:

is this legit?

I take a deep breath and reply:

Only one way to find out.





5


Coming here was a mistake.

This is all I can think as the taxi screeches to a halt outside Solana mall, narrowly missing a vendor selling shiny Xi Yangyang helium balloons from the back of his bike. Lit up against the backdrop of a starless night sky, the sprawling shopping complex looks far bigger and grander than it did in the images I found on Baidu, the trees and wide storefronts all decorated with twinkling fairy lights. There’s even an inky river flowing past a row of Western cafés on one end, the still surface reflecting the glow of water fountains.

Everything here seems clean. Fancy. Expensive, from the European architecture to the dressed-up girls in their twenties casually swinging designer bags over their thin white shoulders.

It’s a completely different world from the tiny supermarkets that always stink of raw fish and the rundown shops near my parents’ flat. A world suited for people like Rainie or Henry, not me. I can’t help feeling like a dog who’s wandered into wolf territory, every muscle in my body tensed, prepared for something to pounce.

“That’ll be 73 RMB,” the taxi driver tells me.

It takes me a second to understand what he’s saying with his heavy regional accent, and when I do, I almost freak out. Solana isn’t even that far from Airington; all the time we spent stuck in traffic must’ve driven the price up.

But then I remember that user C207 is covering my travel expenses for today, on top of the 20,000 RMB for if—when—I do my job well.

20,000 RMB.

The thought of that money filling up my brand-new bank account is enough to force my fears aside.

For now, at least.

I quickly pay the driver through WeChat, then scramble out of the taxi. The warm night air wraps around me like a cloak, and I’m grateful I decided to go with a simple sleeveless black dress for tonight—the only dress I have. Wearing my school uniform was obviously out of the question; I can’t risk drawing any attention to myself before I turn invisible.

As I make my way toward the main entrance, sidestepping a young couple sharing lamb kebabs and a loud squad of international schoolkids (you can always just tell), I go over the to-do list in my head:

One, find user C207’s father.

Two, follow him for the rest of the night without getting caught, or until—

Three, you gather substantial evidence that he is or is not cheating on his wife.

Four, send evidence to user C207.

Once I’ve reached the sliding glass doors, I pull out my phone and do another scan of the photos C207 messaged me yesterday, trying to commit the face in them to memory. This task would be a lot easier if their father didn’t look like most wealthy men in their midfifties: beer belly straining against a crisp button-down shirt; short, graying hairs; ruddy complexion from too many free company drinks; and a roundish nose set over an even rounder chin.

Already, I’ve seen two or three businessmen passing by that bear a strong resemblance to the person I’m searching for. A terrible thought grips me: What if I end up stalking the wrong guy? It’d be so easy for me to blow it. And what then? The whole night would be wasted—a night that could’ve been spent finishing my ten-page history research assignment for tomorrow or revising for next week’s chemistry unit test. I’d have to tell Henry and user C207 that I messed up, have to sit with the awful taste of failure I’ve spent my whole life trying very hard to avoid, and the whole plan would implode, and—

“Hey, you okay, kid?”

I jerk my head up. A beautiful, kind-faced woman who looks young enough to still be in college has stopped to peer over at me, her thick-lashed eyes wide with concern.

I realize I’ve been tapping my feet anxiously on the pavement like a scared rabbit, and I doubt my expression is too reassuring either. Get your shit together, Alice, I scold myself, forcing my feet to still. There’s no way I can run a successful criminal enterprise if I have nerves of watery tofu.

“Oh yeah. I’m fine. Great,” I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as I can. Maybe a little too much enthusiasm. The woman takes a small step back as if uncertain about my mental stability.

“Okay then, just checking...” There’s a distinct Southern lilt to her voice—as in southern China, not Texas—making her words flow like water down a stream. After a few beats of deliberation, she turns around to leave, but before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, she pauses and asks, “Are you here with anyone? Your parents?”