“Why would I?”
She stands up and removes a piece of paper from a drawer. The font is so small—it takes a few blinks for his eyes to focus, to comprehend that what she’s given him is an e-mail confirmation of a wire transfer. Three thousand dollars from Jin’s bank account to theirs.
“He asked for our routing number so he could give me some money. He said I should buy all new clothes for Mae before she’s released from the hospital. I tried to call you.… He was so insistent, but honestly, I thought he was talking about a couple hundred dollars or something. I had no idea he was planning to transfer this much.”
Kyung scans the digits from left to right, counting and recounting the number of spaces they extend. “What else did he say this was for?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing it’s for food, maybe.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“This is important, Gillian. I need to know exactly what he said.”
“Nothing, I swear. I told him it was too much and he said he wanted us to have it for our trouble. That’s it. That was the whole conversation.”
For our trouble. It’s not worth it to explain that the money is Jin’s penance for his outburst earlier, that three thousand dollars is now the going rate of an apology in his family. Kyung knows how desperate Gillian is to keep the money—he can see it on her face, the way it looks so old and lined with worry. She understands, just as he does, that pride won’t fill their refrigerator next week. Pride won’t get his license renewed or pay the water bill or keep the collection agencies at bay. It’s a useless form of currency they can’t afford to trade in anymore. Kyung folds the paper in half and returns it to her, reminded of the gifts that always appeared like clockwork after a beating, the art and jewelry and clothing with their price tags still attached. One of his clearest memories of Mae dates back to grade school, when she stood in the hallway outside his room for over an hour, staring at herself in a full-length mirror. She was wearing a new mink coat, a plush gray one streaked with black and white—the kind that actresses on television wore when their characters were supposed to be rich. Mae kept turning from side to side, swinging the coat to make the fur brush against her legs, which were purple with bruises. He hated her then—he hates her still—for teaching him that everyone had a price.
PART TWO
DUSK
FOUR
The man on the doorstep is dressed like a college student, with a T-shirt and jeans and a Red Sox cap pulled low over his eyes. Kyung doesn’t recognize him; he doesn’t recognize the car in his driveway either.
“No soliciting,” he says, pointing at the sticker on the storm door that announces the same.
The man removes his cap and runs his fingers through his matted hair. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Cho. It’s just me.”
Kyung is startled to see Lentz again. He wonders if he came to tell him that Nat Perry is in custody, or maybe even dead like his brother, but the longer he examines him, the clearer it is. There’s no good news on Lentz’s dimpled face. It’s a courtesy call, nothing more. He invites him in and leads him back to the kitchen, where Gillian is making lunch and Jin and Ethan are sitting on the floor, assembling his tricycle. The area around them is littered with parts, like a hardware store exploded and showered them in metal.
“That’s a nice bike,” Lentz says to Ethan. “You’re going to have a lot of fun with that, aren’t you?”
“It’s from my grandma and grandpa. I named him Boomer.”
Kyung dragged the tricycle upstairs earlier that morning, desperate for an activity that didn’t involve sitting in front of the TV. Ethan shrieked when he saw the box, skipping around in circles and singing “bicycle” to the theme song of his favorite cartoon. Jin didn’t seem to mind that his gift had sat in the basement for several months. The impromptu song and dance even made him smile. Kyung assumed the three of them would work on the bike together, but Jin was quick to deputize Ethan, assigning him to sort and organize the parts. Despite the occasional pang of guilt he felt for not helping, Kyung was actually relieved to sit on the sidelines. He’d always been terrible at following instructions; he could barely put a bookshelf together, much less a bike. From his seat at the kitchen table, he tried to read a book that Gillian had given him, but his attention kept drifting away from the pages. Assembling a bike required patience, especially with an excited child underfoot. He worried that Jin might lose his temper at any moment, but the moment never came.
“Do you have some news for us?” Gillian asks.
Lentz leans against the wall, glancing at the stacks of sandwiches that she’s arranging on a platter. “We finished collecting evidence at Mr. and Mrs. Cho’s house, so they’re free to go back now.”