“Yukying, I know what’s doing this. It’s the house! It’s not me, it must be the house. If we leave, you’ll remember. Come on!”
He reached out to take her hand. All the lights flickered. “Come on, this will work. Trust me. Please?”
She shook her head. No, no no no. The scream trapped in her throat made the lightbulbs rattle in their fixtures. Impatience welled within him: he knew how to fix it, and she wouldn’t listen. He stepped forward to pull her outside. He knew the answer, and if she wouldn’t listen he’d make the choice for both of them—
He knew what came next. There was a knife in his hand, and the dream wanted to use it. It would be an accident. He wouldn’t mean to do it. But it was coming, and he couldn’t stop it. Did he even want to stop?
After this, there would only be one person left. He would be waiting for Tinseng in his mother’s library, reading the poem. He was waiting, and Tinseng would go to him.
There’s no stopping any of this, he thought as the knife slipped between Yukying’s ribs. There never was.
A hand shook his shoulder.
For all his desperation to escape the nightmare, Tinseng didn’t wake immediately. His mind folded the sensation into the dream, a piece of the house trying to capture him. He shuddered trying to shake it off. The hand shook him again, a little harder. This time the dream finally shattered as he heard, “Tinseng.” It was his favorite person’s voice.
“We brought you breakfast,” his other favorite person added. He opened his eyes to find them both smiling down at him. He searched Yukying’s face for any of the fear from his dream.
“You look tired, A-Seng. Did you rest well?”
“Bad dreams,” he admitted, then felt guilty when they both looked worried. “But I’m fine now. Did I hear something about breakfast?”
At the little table, he and Yukying took the chairs. Jinzhao sat perched on the very end of the bed. Once he finished eating, Tinseng fumbled to shake a cigarette from his crumpled package. Jinzhao held the lighter, cupping his hand to keep the flame steady.
With no further distractions, Tinseng sighed. “So, Yukying. What do you think you saw?”
“Our first night,” she said, “I saw Shan Dao returning to his room around midnight. I thought it was odd, since you said he always went to sleep early. The second night, I saw him leaving Mr. Grodescu’s room, with Mr. Grodescu inside. Mrs. Grodescu mentioned they planned to visit Tamariz Beach, and then I got a note from you saying our plans had changed from Carcavelos to Tamariz. I didn’t want to assume anything, and I’m sorry I thought that about you, Shan Dao. I just wanted to make sure Tinseng was safe.”
“No apology necessary,” Jinzhao said, as Tinseng insisted, “I can take care of myself, you know.”
“Of course,” Yukying patted his hand.
“So, I suppose you’re curious what really happened?” he asked.
She indulged him with an equally nonchalant, “A little.”
“Well,” Tinseng settled back in his chair. He loved telling a good story. “The first thing you need to know is that Lucas Grodescu is a dangerous man. Maybe the most dangerous you’ve ever met. He calls himself a courier, or a middle-man. He started as a blackmailer, but he’s much more than that now. He sells secrets to governments. They all buy from him, and they’d be sorry to see him go, because they need intel and he’s one of their best sources. I’m only telling you this so you understand. We’ve had to be careful.”
“I understand.”
“Grodescu is motivated only by money. That’s why he can’t give up the personal blackmailing. He’ll sell anything and ruin anyone. If you can’t pay, he’ll toss your secret to the press, or the police, or your spouse—whatever will do the most damage. He’s like a tic, getting fat off his host. He’s merciless underneath all that charm.”
“Charm?” She repeated skeptically.
“You’re right. Sleaze is better. You weren’t taken in by him, were you?”
“I entertain politicians every night, A-Seng,” she admonished softly. “And I’ve talked with his wife. She’s scared of him.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s holding something over her,” Tinseng said. “But I bet you’re wondering why we know about Grodescu in the first place. Why are we involved with him?”
Here was the part he’d been dreading. Tinseng didn’t mind lying in general; he saw it as a means to an end, and the lies he told were mostly harmless. But lying to Yukying had always been difficult.
“Because . . .” Tinseng inhaled his cigarette and looked at Jinzhao. “I’ve run into some trouble.”
“Grodescu knows about Tinseng,” Jinzhao added.
They’d decided Jinzhao would talk rarely and would tell Yukying the biggest lie. Considering how Jinzhao felt about outright lies, it had been a startling offer. Tinseng knew it came from guilt. That hadn’t stopped him from accepting; it was a smart plan. Yukying would be watching for lies from Tinseng but wouldn’t know Jinzhao’s tells.
“Knows wh—” They watched Yukying’s eyes grow wide. “Oh.”
“He is blackmailing him,” Jinzhao continued. “He has photographs.”
“Oh.” Yukying blinked a few times. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Tinseng.” Worry lines deepened around her eyes. “So yesterday, you were . . ?”
“Understanding his terms.”
“We’ll pay whatever he wants,” Yukying said in her most serious voice, covering Tinseng’s hand and staring so intently that he blinked. “Whatever it is.”
“Ah,” Tinseng cleared his throat of the sudden emotion stuck there. He’d imagined Yukying’s reaction to this lie to be . . . well, not this. “Jiejie, you’re too good. But it’s not so simple. We’ll never be rid of him, as long as he has those photos.” That much was true, at least.
Yukying stared down at the floor.
When the quiet stretched too long, Tinseng said softly, “It’ll be fine. Like I said yesterday, I’m taking care of it. The main thing is, we don’t want you to worry.”
Yukying sat a moment longer, thinking. Tinseng tried not to rush her. Eventually, she folded her hands in her lap and said, “I think you should tell Cheuk-Kwan.”
Tinseng actually laughed. “You think that would go well?”
