It’s worse when parents force things, said Kathy. A friend of hers who’d started her daughter at Ming Liang Academy—you know, the Chinese immersion school?—had told her an absolute horror story about a little boy who’d cried nonstop for weeks and wet himself daily before finally getting expelled.
My mojito-filled stomach churned, sending acid up my gullet, along with the protest that Henri had only wet himself a handful of times. I choked out, How awful.
Troy said, Poor little guy. Who knows how long he’ll carry that trauma?
The parents should have known better, said Kathy.
Weakly, I agreed.
When the car stopped at a red light, I briefly entertained the thought of flinging open the door and leaping out, running away from it all, and if I broke a limb or got a concussion, maybe Winnie would finally leave me alone.
They dropped me off in front of my house. Instead of going right inside, I checked to make sure that neither Oli nor Henri had spotted me through a window and jogged up the street, away from them.
When the backs of my ballet flats chafed my heels, I settled on a bench near the bus stop and checked my phone, torturing myself with images of joyous classmates frolicking on our joyous campus, reveling in each other’s joyous company. Scrolling through my feed, I spotted a 60 Minutes clip about the SFO plane crash. The headline declared that counterfeit airplane parts may have been at fault. I pressed play and turned up the volume.
Apparently, Boeing routinely outsourced their manufacturing to subcontractors in China, who in turn outsourced work to sub-subcontractors, who commonly used substandard raw materials and fabricated production records to fool the inspectors.
What’s more, Lesley Stahl said, her piercing blue eyes locking with mine, many of those components are what are known as single-point-of-failure parts, meaning if they fail, the whole system fails. Could this have been the culprit of the tragic SFO crash? Investigators are working around the clock to uncover the answer.
My mind landed on the Maks’ other illegal businesses. Tell me, Detective, you must have an idea. What else do they manufacture? Counterfeit pharmaceuticals? Electronics? Do you know for certain that the Maks deal in counterfeit plane parts, too? I suspected as much.
Indeed, as I sat on that bench, thinking about those two little girls who’d been ejected from their seats, the lies that Winnie had fed me and that I in turn accepted—that ours was a victimless crime, that we helped more people than we hurt—all of that curdled into a foul, bitter brew.
This, Detective, is the moment I decided I would confess everything I knew about the Maks, Winnie, and, most of all, myself.
Why the skepticism? I’ve been completely forthright with you; I’ve laid myself bare.
What’s that? You looked up Winnie’s green card application file? I have no idea how she could have submitted a reference letter written by me. We weren’t in touch back then, so I certainly didn’t write it. As I’ve already said, I didn’t even know she’d married and divorced that uncle of hers until Carla and Joanne told me about it. Winnie must have written the letter herself and forged my signature. By now you know as well as I: she’d sign anybody’s name with a flourish, if it would help her get her way.
Come on, Detective. You can’t still be asking this question, not after everything we’ve covered. How can I make this any clearer? I do not know where she is.
Why would you go through the trouble of acquiring the call logs for my other phone? Why not simply ask me? Aren’t I here, of my own accord, telling you every last detail I know? Haven’t I given up every email exchanged with Mandy Mak and Kaiser Shih to substantiate what I’ve said?
Of course I made some calls to Beijing—and, as you’ve no doubt observed, Guangzhou, Dongguan, Shenzhen, Shanghai. Up until yesterday, the Maks believed that Winnie and I were running a thriving counterfeit handbag business, and they had absolutely nothing to worry about. How else do you think you arrested your guy?
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Let me say, Detective, that it’s such a relief to tell you everything. What I want most is to excise this small stretch of time like a tumor, go home to my husband and child, and start anew. What a fool I was to take my beautiful life for granted.
Yes, yes, I know you’re not done with me yet. There’s more to get through. Where was I? The decline, the fall, the finale.
At this point, Detective, the story shifts back to you—how you infiltrated our business to build a case against us. Honestly you worked so quickly and efficiently, you likely could have ambushed Winnie at home in L.A. if you hadn’t decided you needed additional evidence and asked to complete a higher value assignment.
This is when Winnie grew suspicious. She dispatched her private investigator to dig into your background, and once she figured out who you were, she called to say that at long last she agreed with me—it was time to shut things down.
She said, There’s a midnight flight from SFO to Taipei with one seat in business class.
I’m not going, I said.
You must.
I won’t.
It was the kind of exchange we’d fallen into countless times these past months. And yet, she must have heard in my voice a new steeliness, a diamond core.
Have you lost your mind? There’s no way they won’t come after you.
I know.
Her tone dripped acid. Don’t think you can bring me down with you. And with that, she ended the call and disappeared.
The phone plunged from my trembling grip. My limbs gave way and I fell to the floor, shaking, sweating, dispelling a fiery animal stink. I was hollowed out, empty, exorcised, reborn. The ground rose up to cradle me. There on the rug I remained for who knows how long, until Henri wandered in, threw himself on top of me, and growled like a lion, thinking it a game.
Hours later, when Oli came home, I was waiting for him in the living room. I asked him to sit down on the sofa next to me.
He said, What’s going on? Where’s Henri?
He’s in the high chair with the iPad. He’s fine.
Oli kicked off his shoes and joined me, his messenger bag still slung across his torso.
I need to tell you something, I said. I need you to not say a word until I’m done.
He ran his fingers through his hair and said, All right.
Then and there, I told him everything from start to finish. No more secrets, no more lies.
He listened and did not interrupt, his expression growing more and more strained with the effort to remain silent.
When I finally stopped, he said, Now can I speak?
I nodded. My mouth was parched, my throat tender and sore.
When will you go to the police?
First thing tomorrow.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin.
In a small voice I said, Is there anything else you want to ask me?
No, he said gruffly. Yes.
I wet my chapped lips with my tongue.
I still—I just—I—. He couldn’t complete the thought.
I stared out the window at the darkening street, and he did, too, anticipating that magic moment when the streetlights glimmered on.
So this is it. This is everything. I guess the only other thing I want you to know is that I’ve given a lot of thought to the future and how I will atone for my mistakes. I’ve started researching MBA programs—I know, can you imagine? At my age? If I’m fortunate enough to go back to school, my dream is to build a direct-to-consumer clothing company that sells luxe basics, produced in the most ethical factories—factories that will provide good jobs for women in the developing world.