“I don’t know,” she said. He was dressed simply, in dark slacks and cowboy boots and a denim shirt so pale it was almost white. She felt herself crying, and shook her head, embarrassed. “I don’t know.”
He took her hand. “I came as soon as I heard—I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“I’m okay,” she said, and remembered the dull ache in her stomach. “At least until the adrenaline wears off again.”
“Again?”
“I just had kind of a big scare,” she said. She looked at the bustling hallway, wishing she could take him somewhere more private to talk, not wanting to let go of his hand. Instead she just lowered her voice and leaned in closer, whispering in his ear. “One of them talked to me. One of the Bluescreen people.”
“What?”
“Through Franca Maldonado—he used her as a puppet to give me a message.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No,” Marisa whispered, “he asked for help. He said it’s gotten too big, and he can’t control it anymore. They hired Tì Xū Dāo, and it sounded like some other gangs as well, but they’ve slipped their chains, and now they can’t control it.”
“Damn it,” Saif growled. “The last thing we needed was a drug war. But . . .” He paused, his teeth clenched, staring into space. Finally he shook his head. “Why you?” He looked back at her. “Why would this traitor talk to you, of all people?”
“I don’t know,” said Marisa, shaking her head. “But I . . . They know who I am. They saw me through your eyes last night at the VR parlor. I’ve been keeping my djinni off because I was afraid they’d try to kill me, but it’s been back on for hours now and I’m fine. This traitor—Nils, I think—he’s protecting me. He knows that I know what’s going on, and he doesn’t have anyone else to turn to, so he’s keeping the rest of them off my back so I can do . . . I don’t know. He cut the connection as soon as I said his name.”
“You can’t trust him,” said Saif. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Look around,” said Marisa, pulling back. “It’s already too dangerous. They have to be stopped. Do you have any better ideas?”
“If he talks to you again, just . . . everything he says will be a lie, okay? Don’t believe anything . . .”
Marisa watched him struggle for the right words. “What? What do you—”
“Excuse me?” A doctor had walked up next to them. “Ma’am?”
Marisa saw the sadness in the doctor’s eyes, and felt a sudden flurry of nerves. What had happened to her father? She gripped Saif’s hand, warm and strong, and brushed the hair from her face. “Yes?”
“Are you the young lady whose friend collapsed here in the hall?”
“What? Yes, yes of course.” She felt a rush of gratitude—the bad news wasn’t about her father—but then almost immediately felt guilty. Something terrible had happened to Franca. “Is she okay?”
“Do you have contact information for her family? We can’t read it off her djinni, it’s . . . completely bricked. And we’re reading essentially zero brain activity.”
Marisa inhaled sharply. “Is she dead?”
“No,” said the doctor. “But her brain might be.”
SEVENTEEN
Marisa’s father was released six hours later; they would have held him longer, but the family couldn’t afford to keep two people in the hospital at once, and Chuy’s injury was worse than Carlo Magno’s. They cleaned the leg, stitched the wound closed, and prescribed a painkiller strong enough to get them mugged if anyone knew they had it. All Marisa got was an antibiotic ointment and a wide bandage, covering half her stomach. Saif called a cab, and the three of them rode to the restaurant.
San Juanito was in shambles. Marisa walked through the front door in silence, looking at the bullet holes lining the walls and the splintered wood of the plastic-coated tables. Broken glass crunched under her feet. Carlo Magno hopped behind her on his crutches, and she righted a fallen chair, dusting it off so he had somewhere to sit.
“This is terrible,” said Carlo Magno, chuckling softly as he collapsed into the chair. “I built this place with my bare hands.”
Saif eyed him strangely. “You don’t sound too broken up about it.”
“I’m high,” said Carlo Magno. “Ask me again when these painkillers wear off.”