If You Could See the Sun (85)

“You could,” I agree, shifting into another one of the Top Ten Most Effective Power Stances of All Time, “but I personally wouldn’t.”

“What...”

With two fingers, I pull out the BMW keys I’ve been keeping in my pocket and hold them up in plain view, letting the shiny metal catch the artificial lights. Andrew’s face pales. The heater above us roars louder.

“Your men dropped these the other night,” I say pleasantly.

His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. “Where did you—” He cuts himself off. Taps his nails on the polished table surface, eyes flicking away. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You can’t really prove the car—”

“Can’t I? What if I matched up the keys to the license plate N150Q4?” I speak over him, savouring the look on Andrew’s face when he recognizes the number. Wow, this feels even better than answering a Kahoot question correctly in front of the class. “Between that, the message you sent me on Beijing Ghost, and the lawyer Henry’s going to lend me, the evidence is kind of stacked against you.”

“Whoa, wait—he’s going to lend you a lawyer? Henry Li? You?” Andrew looks like he’s only just now realizing the nature of my relationship with Henry, and hates himself for the oversight.

I shrug. “Well, Henry’s company has twelve lawyers. All graduates from Harvard, Tsinghua, or Peking University. He can definitely spare one if things get messy for me.”

A dark vein jumps in Andrew’s forehead. He’s sweating profusely—from the heat or nerves, I can’t tell. Maybe both.

Either way, I seize the chance to keep talking. “Look, Andrew, I’m short on time, so I’ll just spell it out for you. If you take this to court, or sue me—if you dare try to absolve yourself of this crime—you’re most definitely going to lose. You’re also definitely going to waste time and money and resources—”

“So would you,” Andrew interjects.

“I know,” I say, keeping my voice level. “But I don’t have an important company position to worry about. If this case were to blow up, and news were to get out that you and your father hired someone to kidnap a child just to secure a promotion... Well, it wouldn’t look too good for you, would it?”

“No.” He shakes his head. More sweat forms along his hairline, trickles down his cheek. “No. No. That’s not...” He trails off and stills, as if something’s just occurred to him. Looks up at me. “You had other clients for Beijing Ghost, didn’t you?”

“What of it?”

“They’d be able to prove you’re lying. Beijing Ghost wasn’t a study app—it was a criminal app. With them backing me up—”

“Do you know how much dirt I have on the kids in our year level?” I raise my eyebrows. Did you seriously think I wouldn’t have thought of this beforehand? I add in my head. “Even if I didn’t blackmail them, do you expect them to willingly reveal to the school or the police the sort of things they hired me for?”

His nostrils flare, lips setting into a sullen line. I’m right, and he knows it. He looks so defeated, so helpless, with his massive frame hunched over the low table, that for a moment I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

“Fine, fine, fine. You’ve made your point,” he finally mutters. “What do you want me to do?”

I try not to show how weird this new dynamic is to me; I’m always the one doing what others want, the one desperate enough to agree to pretty much anything.

“Just go along with my story,” I instruct. My mouth feels dry all of a sudden, likely in anticipation of what’s to come. I wish I’d remembered to bring a bottle of water. There were so many in the back of Henry’s company car. “A representative from the school board will be meeting with us soon.”

He frowns. “Soon? How soon?”

I grab my phone and fire a quick text at Henry: All done. He responds immediately with a thumbs-up. “As in...now.”

Right on cue, the conference room doors swing wide open, and Henry and Chanel stride in like characters from a movie scene. Seriously. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were moving toward me in slow motion, and dramatic music started swelling in the background. Since school has technically ended by this hour, they’re both wearing their own clothes, instead of uniforms. Henry looks distractingly attractive, dressed in the kind of crisp, tailored black suit that wouldn’t make him seem out of place on Wall Street, and Chanel has on this elaborate, shoulder-padded blazer with gold buttons.

Next to them, my discount supermarket sweater must look even cheaper and sadder than usual—which is the whole point. When I messaged Chanel today about helping out at this meeting, I’d asked her to dress as nicely as she could, and made the same request of Henry.

For my plan to work, I need to swallow my pride and really lean into the desperate-student-attempted-crime-just-to-survive look.

On the heels of Henry and Chanel, a woman who can only be Madam Yao, representative of the school board, makes her entrance. She doesn’t so much walk as glide into the conference room, her movements streamlined like a shark in water. Everything about her is elegant, unnervingly precise—from the string of delicate pearls arranged around her neck and her silver-streaked gravity-defying bob, to the hard angles and creases of her unsmiling face.