by Nova McBee
I turned away, fighting tears, and bumped into Dad.
“What’s wrong, Jo?” he asked, reading my face.
“Nothing,” Mara answered for me, faking a sniffle. “We’re just emotional about Josephine leaving tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said, eyes to the ground. Why was I protecting her? Mara needed correcting on a regular basis. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it because Dad’s hope that we’d act like sisters pooled in his eyes. My promise to him did too. Besides, Mara was my sister. I loved her. “While I’m gone, all that’s mine is yours, Mara.”
“Aw, you’d do that for me?” Her voice was sarcastic.
I stared her right in the eye, already willing that with distance our relationship could heal. “I’d do anything for you, Mara.”
Her eyes glistened before she smirked, and my father wrapped his arms around us both.
“It’s about time you acted like sisters,” he said. He raised a glass of sparkling wine. “And now my turn. To my daughter and her bright future.”
The number of glasses chinking registered as we toasted each other. Then one by one, students, professors and other notable faculty came to congratulate me. My family dropped into the background.
Behind them all, Mara stood there looking lost. I hope she knew that what I said was true. I’d do anything for her, for them. Now that Mom was gone, it was up to me to keep this family together.
Too bad numbers couldn’t help me with that.
5
Present: Double-Eight
THE PRATT, SHANGHAI, CHINA
Bo Gong walks into the room as my question to Chan about how they plan to get me out of the Pratt is barely out of my mouth. “Early tomorrow morning my personal guard will discover your dead body in your cell.”
“Why tomorrow?” I ask.
“Before dawn fewer people will be watching. King never comes in the morning.”
“How will I die?”
“Suicide by poison. King gave you an ultimatum. You chose death. We will tell him Red slipped you poison before he died—out of mercy. After we dragged you into his office today, no one will question the story. Especially with your cute little scuffle.”
I don’t like the idea of death being the only way to solve a problem and I don’t want people in the Pratt to think I’m a coward. Not after all I’ve done to prove myself and gain their respect. Some even consider me an ally now. It must be done another way.
“No. Tonight. Now,” I say. “Tell them I fought back—until the end.”
“What?”
“Now, or nothing,” I say. “Tell King whatever you want but leave me with my honor.”
Bo Gong considers the idea. Honor is something all men try to protect, criminal or not. “We do have blood on the floor thanks to your friendly greeting to Chan. It could work. But you’ll have to leave with me. Not Chan.”
Bo Gong pulls out a gun, opens the barrel and removes the bullets. He fumbles in his desk and pulls out what look like more bullets, only bigger and reloads the gun. I’m not familiar with guns and I don’t like them. I’m not sure what he’s doing. But my eyes widen—what does a real gun have to do with my ‘fighting until the end’ idea? Does he need to show people a body?
“Blanks,” Bo Gong says, answering the question on my face. “I can’t shoot a real bullet in here. We will need it to be loud enough for several prisoners to hear it. Guard San is near the door. He will be the first to tell people. He knows nothing of our plan. Poor soul, you have bewitched him into thinking you’re a saint.”
“What do you think of me?” I ask.
“You’re not who Madame said you were. Old Red trusted you. That counts for something.” His eyes linger on me. “Whoever you are, you’ve earned another death and resurrection. Lucky you.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask him. In this world, double-crossing is to be expected. No one trusts anyone.
“Because tonight I’m dead as well,” he says smiling. “At least that is what the police report will say.”
He leans forward, like he is about to share a secret. I lean in, hungry for it.
“I am getting out,” he confesses. The dim light accentuates the wrinkles around his strained and tired eyes. “For good. By tomorrow morning I will be a citizen of Brisbane, Australia. My family and I will be long gone with the last large bundle of cash I need to complete the deal, thanks to him.” He indicates Chan. “The only person getting double-crossed is King.”
My chest swells. The plan is better than I thought. A penny turned over. Bo Gong is getting out of crime. Like Red says, it’s better for a person’s heart to change before the law changes it for them. Now I understand why the bottle of expensive liquor is here. Bo Gong sees me eye it and pours a shot for each of us.
“Here’s to freedom. If you are ever in Australia, look me up—if you can find me. Ganbei!” He raises his glass, then throws his head back and downs the shot. I take the small glass in my hand. Why not? No one has ever offered me a drink before. I copy Bo Gong, shooting fast, in one fell swoop. The clear liquid ignites a trail of fire down my throat until it sets off a flaming bomb in my stomach. I cough, gag. Ugh. Why do they like this stuff?
Chan pops up from his chair. “So, tonight it is.” He fidgets with his finger again. “Should I stay in the room, uh, for the, you know?”
“No. Leave now.” Bo Gong scribbles down an address and hands it to Chan. “Meet here. One hour.”
Chan nods and stands up, obedient and ready to be done with this.
Before he leaves, I catch his arm. “Sorry about your nose.”
He shakes a hand in the air, as if to wave it away. “Forget it,” he says, then he looks at me. “Red never told me your name.”
I look at Chan before I open my mouth. Without a doubt, everything Red talked about starts now. Pure gold does not fear the fire. “My name is Phoenix.”
Chan leaves King’s office, closing the door behind him and a gunshot rings out. Double-Eight is dead. My new life begins now.
6
Present: Phoenix
FRENCH CONCESSION, SHANGHAI, CHINA
Even after a shower at the small spa where we meet up with Chan, I still feel dirty when the door swings open to my new house. My black eye doesn’t match the designer interior of the house, either. Shiny marble floors, spotless white leather couches, and golden-framed mirrors reflect the glow of chandeliers. I shrink and hesitate to cross the threshold.
“Please, please.” Mr. Chan waves me forward with his practiced courtesy. “Enter, enter.”
I slip my shoes off at the door, as custom requires. The marble is smooth and cold against my bare feet, making the house feel colder than it is. I grasp at the thin black jacket I’m wearing.
Mr. Chan opens a cupboard holding white slippers like I have seen in nice hotels, setting a pair before me. I slip them on and compare Madame’s hotel, where removing shoes was also an expected civility, to the Pratt, where if you took your shoes off there was no guarantee you’d get them back.
“We have always used this villa for important visitors,” Mr. Chan says leading me further into the room. “As I promised, it is yours while you work for me. Rent free.” He walks across the room, pointing out antiques and paintings and, of course, their prices.
Great. Feeling at home here will be as easy as relaxing in a dentist’s chair. It’s like walking through a photo in a Chinese Vogue magazine. Tall acrylic-painted vases and hand-painted scrolls decorate the front room. Silk carpets lay under ornate wooden furniture that is in mint condition even though it was most likely crafted a hundred years before communism ruled China.
“The whole property belongs to me,” Chan says referring to the entire city block, formerly the Swiss Consulate, located in one of Shanghai’s wealthiest areas, the French Concession.
When we pulled up at the front gate, it felt like we had left China and were entering Buckingham Palace. The gate alone must cost as much as the property. There were two rustic French vi
llas on the estate, one very large and rusty pink, with white shutters and a large porch. The other, where we are now, was the larger one’s twin, though much smaller. The two houses were separated by a very large manicured garden but connected with a path.
I stare out the window at blooming jasmine plants and young bamboo shoots in wonder. Am I really out of the Pratt? Nothing feels real. Certainly not this beauty around me.
At the back of the property sits a wooden dome of sorts. Chan catches me eyeing it out the window. “What’s that?”
“It’s a pool house, small but clean. Use it whenever you like,” he says. “We have twenty-four surveillance cameras around the gate. No one comes on your side of the property unless invited. Except the dog, occasionally.” He continues explaining everything in the house—it has recently been remodeled, and there is a small cellar that contains tea that has been aging for more than twenty years, and on and on.
I stop listening because the pool reminds of me of dangerous hands. I shudder like I do every time water comes to mind. I won’t be swimming any time soon, or ever again.
“We are just across the path, if you need anything.”
“We?” My whole body tenses. “You said your wife was dead.”
“My son,” Mr. Chan answers like it’s a well-known fact that all of Shanghai is aware of but me. My muscles relax. “You will meet him tomorrow. He’s interning for me now when he shows up.” He grumbles the last part. “It’s a program set up by his school. He’s good with numbers like you. Now please excuse me. I will grab something in the back office, then leave you to rest.”
He walks off, leaving me alone in a small castle, lost but curious.
Chan indicated the bedrooms were down the hall. I stop, take in all the dimensions of the rooms, and listen. No sound comes from the hall, so I wander in that direction to check them out.
A fragrance stops me in my tracks. It’s subtle, but sweet and fresh, a scent I know, making my heart swell nostalgically.
The scent becomes stronger as I turn the corner into the master bedroom. I stop by the door. A bedside table lamp is on and there’s a vase of flowers next to it. White lilies. My mother’s favorite. The last gift I set on the water for my mom before I was ripped away from my life.
I set my bag down and lean over the petals. This is my room. The smell intoxicates me, like she’s here with me, like a sign that everything will be okay. A slight grin pushes my cheeks up.
Only I can’t decide how they got here. Certainly, placing a vase of lilies in my room was not Mr. Chan’s idea. I’d bet my life on it. Mr. Chan is all business. But maybe he has a maid or a secretary to think of these things for him.
Before I can sit down on the bed, Mr. Chan’s voice calls from the front room. Following the hallway, I find him standing at the door with a briefcase he didn’t have when we arrived.
“I am sorry we couldn’t get new clothes for you tonight,” he says hurriedly. “I’ll have my secretary send for some in the morning.”
“No, thanks.” I’m done with other people buying my clothes. “I’ll get my own.”
“As you wish,” he says. “Do you need anything else?” I shake my head. He opens the door. “See you tomorrow.”
Seriously? One measly night to sort out my new life before I start work tomorrow? I sigh. Good thing I’m as eager to make money as he is now. While I’ve been waiting to get my life back, Madame’s life has gone on long enough without justice.
“Goodnight, Mr. Chan.” I close the door.
Even after locking all three deadbolts I still don’t feel safe. There are more than 50 miles between the Pratt and here, but the enemies I’ve come to know aren’t scared by distance, and locks don’t stop them.
A faint buzz of traffic hums outside, an even fainter buzz of lights inside, but mostly, my new house is silent. The Pratt was never quiet. I wonder if I can adjust. Sadly, the Pratt had become some kind of twisted comfortable. At least there I was surrounded. Here I’m alone, without a clue what to do.
My body groans for rest, but my mind is too wound up to sleep, so I decide to look around outside to get a numerical calculation of my new home.
Back through the kitchen, behind the breakfast nook is a sliding glass door. It’s unlocked. Does Chan always forget to lock the doors? I slide it open and a cool breeze rushes over me. The lights of the city sparkle in the distance.
I stare out at the garden full of manicured plants and trees. It’s beautiful. My mother would have loved this place, her hands in the dirt, gardening. My sisters playing hide and seek back here. For a split second, I picture my dad mowing the lawn and how fresh cut grass smells. Stop, Phoenix. You’re only hurting yourself. Let them go.
My throat tightens. Suddenly I don’t want to be here.
Why couldn’t Chan live in a luxurious high-rise apartment instead of a house with a yard and a fence? It’s too close to the kind of house I grew up in. The thought pricks at me as I step on to the grass and it won’t stop, the same way blackberry thorns catch on your clothes.
Calculations take over as I survey the yard. The beauty around me morphs into a series of equations, graphs, functions, and algorithms, measuring, mapping, and calculating every space and movement around me.
The yard becomes a blueprint of numbers. First, I note the square area of the yard then break down each section, measuring the distance from point A to point B. The grassy area, four lawn chairs and one table, to the patio—one hundred feet away. Next the tennis court to the basketball hoop—forty feet. The wooden dome, with another patio with two large green plants, four flowers in pots, and one small palm tree. Every tree now has a number. This is what people can’t see in my brain.
It’s like a radio always playing music in the background. An internal GPS navigating my every move, with no option to turn it off. My mind calculates a room’s dimensions when I walk into it. Actions—the swing of an arm, standing or sitting. I don’t simply see faces, but symmetry. A sunset is not merely pretty oranges and pinks on a horizon but a web of axis, rotations, and time zones. Don’t even get me started on stargazing.
A branch snaps under me and I come to an abrupt stop. There’s a light on inside the wooden dome.
Mr. Chan didn’t come out here. He said no one would come over to this side. But two small torch-like lanterns encased in glass are burning brighter and a human shadow moves around inside.
Turns out I’m not alone here after all.
My mind jumps into hyper speed and numbers fly like sparks.
Within seconds I’ve configured three escape routes and three possible ways to defend myself with plant pots and gardening tools, but the numbers insist the shadow inside isn’t threatening. It just moseys about slowly, unconcerned with me outside. I push the door open without a sound.
The room smells sweet again. More potted flowers are in the corner on a small table. Orchids.
The pool is steaming. Humidity wraps around me like a sticky blanket, even still, a shiver rushes over me at the sight of the water.
Bent down beside the pool a young man is working. He’s wearing gray linen pants and no shirt. I don’t blame him. It’s like a sauna in here. His back and arms are lean, but strong and sculpted.
The boy, engrossed in his work, doesn’t notice my arrival so I observe him quietly. He’s older than me, but not by much—maybe 18? He can’t be Chan’s son because he’s working on the pool. He must be a servant on the estate. Except why would a worker be on call so late?
The boy moves around, adding chemicals to the pool, pulling out different tools, and fidgeting with different valves on what looks like a water heater. He’s light on his feet and his movements are controlled, precise. I recognize those movements. In the Pratt, men gambled on mahjong, cards and fighting. Game-fights, they called them. I’ve seen too many of those matches not to notice—there’s an 83% chance this boy can fight.
After a minute, he packs up his tools. He takes a tee-shirt hanging on the side of a wicker chair an
d pulls it on. I back up, expecting him to leave, but he heads to the orchids. His fingers glide over their petals so delicately, so obviously delighting in them, that the numbers around him change. The lilies in my room come to mind.
Once he’s finished, he turns and jumps at the sight of my could-be-but-not-quite Chinese face.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” he says in clear, nearly flawless English. His voice is low, calm, and confident. “This is private property.”
“I live here,” I say in English. It sounds ridiculous to say since it’s my first night here, but I’d rather twist the truth than give information to a stranger. “If you are done with your work you can go.” My chest tightens. Why is the pool boy speaking to me in English? Why am I responding in English?
We stand there, eyeing each other until he lets out a laugh.
“You can’t be my father’s new employee.” He takes a good look at me from head to toe, staring at my bruised eye and not-so-nice clothes. “She’s not coming until tomorrow.”
My chest releases a deep breath. He is Chan’s son. “Change of plan and yes, I am her.” The sound of my stuttering voice in English makes me feel small, young again.
“Huh,” he says, still staring. “I was expecting glasses and gray hair, not…” he gets a funny grin on his face. “You.”
Heat charges like an army to my cheeks as I meet his eyes. I switch back to Mandarin, where I’m more confident, where Phoenix speaks. “Chan yijing huijia le,” I say. “He told me I was alone.”
“Sorry if I scared you on your first night here. I’m Kai.” He responds in English, disregarding my ploy to speak his language. “The repair guy was busy, so I fixed the water heater, changed the light bulbs, checked the gas. You know, just wasting my time on blue-collar work. My father hates it when I do menial labor.” He smirks, but behind the jest, his stare is intense. He’s gauging me. Few people have looked at me as deeply as he does now.