“And that means he’s at his most unpredictable,” Hideo finishes. “This is someone we still know nothing about, and I am not going to see another bomb go off just because I want you to catch him for us.”
“Just because you take me off the job doesn’t mean he won’t attack again.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve cancelled every dome event.”
“Every dome event? Around the world?”
“I will not have people physically gathering by the thousands in stadiums across the world, not if it poses a risk for them. They can enjoy the rest of the tournaments from the comfort of their homes.”
No, I can’t give up now. My old, familiar panic is rising up again, the terror of seeing the wall go up between the problem and the solution. Of standing helplessly by while danger circles someone I love. There’s something missing here, as if a new development had suddenly changed Hideo’s mind about everything. “You always knew this job involved some risks. Why are you pulling me out now? You’re too afraid of seeing me hurt?”
“I’m too afraid of involving you in something far bigger than yourself, that you didn’t even choose.”
“This is what I do,” I insist. “And I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not questioning your talent,” Hideo responds, sounding annoyed now. He looks like he wants to say something more, but stops short and just shakes his head. “Right now, all I want to do is minimize any risks, to make sure no one will be harmed.” He looks at me. “You’ve already done your job, Emika. You gave us enough information to know when his operations will happen, and you tracked down someone involved with his plans. It’s enough for us to keep the audience safe. I’ve dismissed the other hunters, too. Let the police take it from here.”
“But you still haven’t caught Zero. That’s not called finishing my job. So if you have a better explanation than that, I’d like to hear it.”
“I’ve already given it to you.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“You want a better explanation?”
“Yes,” I reply, my voice rising. “I think I deserve one.”
Anger flashes hot in Hideo’s eyes now. “I’m telling you to leave, Emika.”
“I don’t take orders from an ex-boss,” I snap.
Hideo narrows his eyes. Suddenly, he leans forward, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and pulls me forward. He kisses me hard. My slew of words comes to a screeching stop. A knife cuts through my rising anger.
He pulls away, his breath short. I’m too startled to do anything except gasp for air. He leans his forehead against mine, then closes his eyes. “Leave.” His voice is raspy, desperate, angry. “Please.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” I murmur.
“I cannot, in good conscience, keep you on this job.” His voice turns quieter. “If you don’t believe any of my other reasons, at least believe this one.”
Before all this, I used to sit on my bed and flip through article after article about Hideo, wondering what it might be like to meet him someday, to become as successful as him, to work with him and talk with him and be like him. But now Hideo is before me, exposing some fragile, inner working of his heart, and I’m sitting here and staring back, flustered and confused.
Something is missing. Something he’s not telling me. Had Zero threatened him in some way, too? Had he threatened me in front of Hideo and prompted Hideo to pull me out of everything? I shake my head and hug my knees tighter. My mind spins.
He studies me for a moment. “You and your teammates will be moved somewhere safe. I’ll see you after the tournaments are over.” Then he stands up and leaves my bedside.
27
That night, I sleep poorly. The hospital bed doesn’t fold quite right, and no matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable on it. When I finally do drift off, old memories seep into my dreams, scenes from when I was eight years old, when my life was back in New York City.
I came home from school one day with my yearbook clutched in my arms. “Dad, it’s here!” I shouted as I shut the door behind me. The school had let my third-grade class decorate the book’s front cover that year, and I’d spent the entire past week painstakingly drawing in the elaborate swirls on the cover’s corners.
It took me a second to realize that our home was in complete disarray—strips of watercolor paper everywhere, cut-up clothes in small piles on the floor, paintbrushes and buckets strewn across the dining room table. In one corner of the room was a haphazard dress Dad was working on, pinned to a bust in a dozen places. I threw down my backpack at the front door and looked on as Dad bustled past me, holding a few pins between his lips.
“Dad?” I said. When he didn’t answer, I raised my voice. “Dad!”
“You’re late.” He flashed me a quick scowl as he settled back into his rhythm of work. “Help me get the snow peas out of the freezer to defrost.”
“Sorry—I was finishing up my homework in the library. But look!” I held up the yearbook with a grin. “They’re here.”
I’d thought for sure that his eyes would jump immediately to the swirls on the cover, that he’d break into his familiar smile and hurry over to have a closer look. Oh, Emi, he’d say. Look at your line work!
Instead, he ignored me as he started pinning up another section of the dress. He was humming to himself, some melody I knew but couldn’t quite place, and his hands trembled slightly as he worked. Was I in trouble? I ran through a list of possible things I could’ve done wrong, but came up empty.
“What are you making for dinner?” I asked, trying to coax him into a conversation as I placed the yearbook down on the kitchen counter. He didn’t respond. I gathered up his paintbrushes scattered on the dining table and dropped them back into the brush jar with a clatter then wiped the table clean with a damp cloth. His laptop was open on the table, and I caught a glimpse of a site with numbers in bold red, along with images of dice and cards and a symbol I didn’t yet know was a gang’s sign.
It read, -$3,290.
“Dad?” I asked. “What’s this?”
“It’s nothing,” he replied without turning around.
I didn’t understand yet that it was a gambling site belonging to a criminal ring, but I did know what a minus sign in front of red numbers meant. I sighed loudly. “Dad. You said you’re not supposed to be spending money like that.”
“I know what I said.”
“You said you’d stop.”
“Emika.”
I didn’t catch the warning in his voice. “You promised,” I insisted, louder now. “Now you’re not going to have money again. You said—”
“Stop talking.”
His voice cracked like a whip. I froze, my words withering on my tongue, my face turned up in shock at my father’s expression. His eyes had finally found mine, and the light in them shone feverish with fury, red from crying. In a flash, I knew what had happened. There was only one thing that could turn my father from a gentle, lighthearted man into someone angry and cruel.
He’d heard from my mother.