Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

“That’s reassuring,” I say dryly.

But he stops short of ripping the IV out of his arm. “I guess I should ask. How fucked am I?”

“They shot your arteries full of dye and made a little video of it circulating through your heart. You should make Dr. Wong show it to you. It’s pretty cool. No blockages anywhere. They didn’t even have to put in a stent.”

Dad’s hand creeps over his heart. “Huh.”

“The only reason they’re keeping you in the hospital is because you have a giant hole in your thigh where they put the dye in, and they don’t trust you not to open it up. Congratulations, motherfucker. You’re not going to die unless you keep trying to kill yourself.”

His gaze falls inward. “Better than I deserve.”

“Better than we both deserve,” I say. “It turns out that the back half of the product launch practically rewrites itself. We’ve got about five hours until we’re on. Think you’ll be up for a two-minute video check-in from the hospital?”

“Yeah.” He shuts his eyes. “You know, Blake. I can’t…I don’t want you to take over. Not if it’s going to…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I already talked to the Board. They’ve agreed that David will take over temporarily. And I told them we’re going to have to restructure the corporation—you obviously need to cut back. Even after rehab.”

He nods. “You?”

“Give me a year with a therapist and we’ll talk about me and Cyclone again.”

It really is that easy. I can say no. I can tell him I have a problem, and it becomes just a…thing. An obstacle. Something I can attack. It was only silence that made it insurmountable.

“And Tina?”

I shut my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Tina.”

“That bad, huh?”

I’m saved from answering by a knock on the door. My dad’s administrative assistant comes in.

“Hey, George.” My dad does his best to look comfortable in a green hospital gown. “Is something going on?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” George says, “but I’m not sure if this is important. Blake, the police contacted us.”

We do not want the police involved in this. Not now. Not ever. “What about?”

“They have your car.” He clears his throat.

I begin to feel lightheaded.

“And they want to know if they should charge the driver with theft on top of everything else. Normally, I’d have told them to fuck off—but the driver’s Tina Chen. I’ve seen that name on Adam’s schedule.”

“Shit.” I shut my eyes. “It’s not theft. Wait. What do you mean, on top of everything else?”

George starts to talk.

It turns out, my father and I are going to have to talk about Tina anyway.

TINA

My mother arrives six hours later. I know because I’m conducted from the prison cell where I’m staying to an interrogation room.

“They say I can talk to you,” she says. “Just the two of us.” She’s still speaking Mandarin. I’m still in handcuffs.

“Why would they let you do that?” I wrinkle my noise.

“Because I acted like I was stupid,” she says with a smile. “‘Oh, let me talk to her, I’ll make her apologize. My daughter is a good girl, I promise, I’ll make her tell you what happened.’ They got greedy. They’re recording everything. They think all they need to do is get an interpreter and boom, easy conviction.” Her smile is sharklike. “DA says he’ll think about bail. Your father will figure that out, and then we’ll walk away, leaving them with nothing.”

I have to smile at that.

“So, tell me,” she says. “Talk about anything but this. What is going on with you?”

“I broke up with Blake.”

“Ah ha!” Her face lights. “I knew you were dating him. Trying to keep things from your mother? Never works.” She frowns. “Wait, why break up with him? He seemed so nice. Did he do something wrong?”

“No.” I shut my eyes. “Mom, do you remember China?”

She stills. “Yes. But you don’t much, right?”

“Only little things.” I look down. “A doll. Grandma.” I swallow. “And I remember that one day, I told someone that Dad was in the park with the others. They took him away and shattered his kneecap and we didn’t see him for two months.” Now that the words are spilling from my mouth, I can’t stop them. “I remember that it was my fault, my fault he got taken away. My fault that—”

“Shh!” My mother leans forward. “Never say that. Never. It was not your fault. Not anyone’s fault, except the Communists.”

“All this time,” I say, choking, “I’ve been trying to make it up to you guys, to make things right. I’ve been scared, so scared, and so convinced that I had to do anything I could to stay safe.”

My mother rubs her eyes. “When I got on the plane leaving China, I promised myself that I would never be afraid again. That I would never be quiet again. I have never done so.”