I hear the torture chamber door unlock. I’ve been yelling at Michael to come let me out for a good long while, but all of a sudden I’m worried it’s not him behind the door.
It’s actually sort of a weird relief to see his face. He’s carrying the laptop like a tray with food and more water on it. He looks like he got even less sleep than me, and he doesn’t have the gun anymore. Bold, Michael, I think. Or dumb. He places everything on the table and sits down in one of the chairs, waiting for me to take the other.
“Aren’t you worried I’m going to beat you up and escape?”
He doesn’t smile at my taunt. “I think you’ll want to hear me out first.”
“Still trying to bargain?” I sit down opposite him. I’m starving, but I force myself to ignore the food, even though it’s making my mouth water and my stomach growl. It’s been a long time since the bun I got from Kiki. Chicken stew and a creamy mound of ugali steam on the plate. I keep my eyes on Michael. “I already told you it’s too late.”
He folds his hands on the table. They look odd for some reason, and then I realize it’s because they’re so smooth. There are no scars or nicks on his knuckles like everyone else I know. My eyes, as if not attached to my brain, search out the crook of his arm, looking for the one mark that I know is there, but it’s hidden under his sleeve. I will not let myself think about that scar right now.
“My dad didn’t kill your mom,” he says.
I wait until I can manage to speak calmly. “I thought we’d cleared all that up.”
“You’re making assumptions. Just because he threatened her doesn’t mean he killed her. Plus, I don’t think he would lie to me. Not about something like that.”
I want to hit him. I want to hit him so hard his pretty little eyeballs cross.
“You have to admit that you can’t be sure,” he continues. “Without a confession or seeing what actually happened, you’ll never really know.”
I shove my chair back from the table so it screams against the concrete. I want to be as far away from Michael as I can. How could we have once been friends? Played and squabbled and cried when the other one got in trouble?
He waits. He’s watching me so closely. I try to keep the little muscles in my face from giving me away. Of course I know that on the surface there is room for doubt. Of course I do. How many sleepless nights have I spent staring up at the stars, wishing for some sort of proof? It’s not just nightmares that keep me awake. Doubt itches like a scab. But as much as I doubt and wonder, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: I know he was capable. He wanted to do it. He said so himself. He had, like they say in detective shows, means, motive, and opportunity. He knew no one was going to stop him, and no one was going to punish him.
Once Boyboy told me about this science theory. Somebody’s razor. It says that the simplest answer is almost always the right one. Something like that. Mr. G is a bad man. He said he would kill Mama, and then she gets murdered. Who else would it be? I shouldn’t need any more proof. I’m sure he did it.
I am so very ninety-nine percent sure.
But that one percent of me is who Michael is talking to now, and he knows it.
I hate that one percent.
“Look, here’s my offer, take it or leave it.”
“Leave it.”
“Would you just listen first? Ngai, you have always been so stubborn.”
I cross my arms over my chest.
Michael speaks slowly and carefully. “You want to find out who killed your mother.”
“I know who killed my—”
“Wait,” he says. “Hear me out. I want back what you took off Dad’s hard drive. What I propose is this: I help you find out who killed your mom, beyond a doubt. We get proof. We figure out why. I have access to places and people you don’t. I have money. People will do things for me, talk to me. We’ll find out who did it, if you promise to give me back what you took off his computer.”
“First of all, who says I can even stop the data I stole from being released? I told you, it’s already out of my hands.”
“Can you stop it?”
For a long time I don’t answer. I don’t understand what Michael is playing at. Why not offer to buy me off? Why this? Why does he care about whether or not his father killed this person? Does he honestly think his dad wouldn’t lie to him? That his father has some sort of code of honor? “What if it turns out your dad did it after all?”
“He didn’t do it.”
“Come on, Michael, it’s Oaxaca’s razor.”
“What? You mean Occam’s razor?”
“Whatever. Look, not that I’m agreeing to this—I’m not—but just for argument’s sake, what if we find out your dad killed her?”
“Then you release the stuff. Do whatever you want with it.”
I frown. It’s infuriating that I can’t read him. “You don’t mean that. If I go along with you, you’ll pull the rug out from under me. You’ll get rid of me. Why should I trust you?”