I flatten my napkin on the table. I’d like the Chicken Alfredo, thanks.
I’ll have the Chicken Parmesan.
Veah, this is bullshit, I say suddenly, once the waiter is gone again. Stop avoiding my question.
Her face remains cool-she is still deadly calm. Her silver eyes betray nothing as she says, Bullshit.
What ?
It just sounds funny coming from your mouth.
You are infuriating.
You’re insufferable.
And you’re still avoiding the question.
Veah puts one palm on the table. You’re not going to like it, Kaya.
I don’t think like is a good word to cover just about anything we’ve done in the past two days !
I have a friend, she says carefully. She’s a hacker, like you. She specializes in forging documents. I think we both know that the only way for you to escape Imai-and the Kais-is to start over. Make a new identity.
It had occurred to me. But-
What about university ? My condo lease ?
You’ll still be enrolled, Veah says. Just . . . not as the same person.
And the Yakuza are just going to believe that ? They try and recruit me, I disappear off the face of the earth, and they’ll just . . . drop it ?
Veah grimaces. That’s the part where we fake your death.
I jump to my feet. My voice is loud. Too loud. We’re going to fake my death ?
The restaurant instantly quiets. But Veah doesn’t seem embarrassed-only amused. With my cheeks burning, I sit back down and Olive Garden resumes its conversation.
My heart is still pounding-too fast.
What about my family ? What will they think ?
They’ll have to believe it for a little bit, says Veah simply. But once the Yakuza are off your trail, I promise you can tell them again.
This is crazy, I sputter. This is fucking ridiculous. I can’t just fake my fucking death ! I can’t let everyone-I can’t let Cassie think I’m dead !
Veah’s eyes shutter. Is that a faint trace of . . . guilt ?
But I instantly harden. Because all of this-this whole disaster-
It’s because of you, I can’t help but think.
And maybe she knows what I’m thinking. Maybe she can tell.
I’m sorry, Kaya, she says. But this is the only way.
I swallow. We’ll see about that. Fine, I snap. But this friend . . . where is she ? How soon can we get there ?
And this is when I notice Veah tense.
That’s the part you’re not going to like.
Right, because I loved the part about faking my fucking death and lying to my family.
Veah glances down as the waiter sets down both our plates. My friend lives in Japan.
Which means-
She finishes it for me. We’re going to Tokyo.
I’m coming home, Cassie.
Hold on tight.
Two hours ago, I told Veah I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my sister first. Now, standing in front of the three-story, white-columned place I once called home, I can only hesitate.
The sun is bright and flickering in the corner of my vision. The sky is endlessly blue, the kind of blue that makes me think of summer days in the backyard, when I would spray Cassie from head to toe in raspberry Kool-Aid.
My fingers tighten on the hem of my shirt.
Squinting up at the sun behind the mansion I once lived in, my thoughts drift.
What if Cassie isn’t home ?
What if something goes wrong and Gavin comes outside ?
What if . . . what if I see my mother again ?
It will be the first time in two years, and I . . . I haven’t forgiven her. How can I ? She’s my mom. She was supposed to choose me. She was supposed to pick me over him.
Veah leans out of the car, gazing at from over the top of the car. Kaya ?
I’m going, I promise. I just . . . needed a minute.
Quickly, I send a text to Cassie. TULIPS. TALK TO ME.
She’ll know what it means-that summer, when I had no home, I would come by and visit her. Usually at around two in the morning, I’d sneak past the alarm systems and climb up to her room from the tulip vines. TALK TO ME was our code for Come outside.
Cassie’s text is swift.
NOT NOW.
Not now ? What the hell does that mean ?
But I’m not giving in without a fight. I need to see her-I need to see if she’s home.
I’ll be right back, I promise Veah.
As I make my way over the pale, rose-coloured stone walkway, I step on a couple of peonies. Just for extra measure.
It occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t hide-maybe I should knock right on the door.
If I’m going to fake my death . . .