THE

NINJA

DAUGHTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE

NINJA

DAUGHTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tori Eldridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

Copyright © 2019 by Tori Eldridge

Cover and jacket design by 2Faced Design

 

ISBN 978-1-947993-69-3

eISBN: 978-1-947993-93-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019951171

 

First trade paperback edition November 2019 by Agora Books

An imprint of Polis Books, LLC

221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070

Hoboken, NJ PolisBooks.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my parents—loved and remembered, always

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Dumpling, or, at least, that’s the first name I can remember; there have been many—some given to me, some taken by me, but none that matter quite as much.

It was Baba who gave me the name. He would bounce me on his thigh, puff his cheeks full of air to make them look like mine, poke his finger in my baby-fat and laugh, telling me it was filled with delicious secrets like Mama’s dumplings. I wonder—if he had known the secrets his daughter would keep, would he have still considered that to be a good thing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

“I don’t give a shit,” said the Ukrainian, glaring at me over blue-tinted glasses.

I snorted the blood dripping from my nose and glared back. Being five foot four, it wasn’t something I could generally do. But since he had strung me up to a metal scaffold in some grungy, vacant building, and stretched to the tips of my running shoes, I was now as tall as him.

“I’ve never shared that story with anyone,” I said. “You should feel privileged.”

I meant it. I had spent the last fifteen minutes telling him a tale I had kept locked in a mental dungeon for years, hidden away from friends, family, even the police. The only reason I had shared the truth now was because I didn’t expect the Ukrainian to live long enough to repeat it.

He should feel downright honored.

He backhanded me across the face. “Yeah? Well, I don’t.”

Fresh blood pooled in my mouth. If I lost a tooth over this, I was not going to be happy.

Once again, he tipped his head down so he could stare at me over his round, retro glasses. “Where are they?”

I spit the blood at his face, or rather I tried to. Most of it just trickled down my chin. “You’re boring. You know that, right?”

He took a breath and exhaled as he flicked his hand and whipped the heavy knot of braided rope into the soft pocket beneath my breast bone. My lungs forgot how to breathe—a shot to the solar plexus could do that to a person.

Surprising, subtle, and devastating. The last time I had experienced this particular kind of pain had been from my teacher’s palm. That lesson had been offered with a higher purpose, not out of anger. Sensei didn’t lose himself to such emotions. But regardless of the intent, the result felt the same—every part of me tried to clench around the pain. Lucky for me, my current posture wouldn’t allow it. The Ukrainian had unwittingly bound me in the best possible position for solar plexus recovery: arms up, chest open. Who knew hanging from the base of a platform with a metal cross support pressed against my back could be so helpful?

Still, it was hard to feel appreciative as I sucked air.

The Ukrainian spit and cursed.

“Kurva blyat!”

He had been saying that a lot, more so in the last hour. I didn’t speak his language, but I had a pretty good idea what it meant. I didn’t mind. He wasn’t my favorite person, either.

“Crazy bitch. You want to keep this up? Fine.”

He flicked the knot against the side of my bare thigh.

I forced a grin. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt me, not after hours of denying it. But when he headed back to his table of toys, I wished I had buried my pride and given him what he had expected to see.

That’s what Sensei would have done.

Sensei had been teaching me the ninja arts since I was twelve, when I discovered him in my neighborhood park tossing grown-ups like confetti. By then, I had seven years of competitive Wushu training behind me. Even so, I had never seen anything so elegantly efficient as the Japanese art of the ninja.

I continued to practice Chinese Wushu in public, but I trained to become a kunoichi—female ninja—in secret. The first discipline rooted me in my Chinese heritage and gave me athleticism and grace. The latter gave me purpose. Unfortunately, as fully as I had assimilated some of my ninja lessons, others refused to stick, like burying my pride.

I had underestimated the benign-looking weapon and the capability of this ridiculous-looking man to wield it, and, as a result, had been unprepared. He didn’t seem like the type who would spend hours honing a skill. And with forearms the size of my calves, I didn’t see why he’d bothered.

“I’m sorry. Okay?” My words spurted out between gasps of pain.

He snorted and turned back to his table.

“Too late.”

“Wait.” Talking hurt, but at least I had gotten him to stop swinging the rope. Maybe if I engaged him in conversation, he’d forget about choosing another weapon. I could live with the rope. At least, I thought I could.

“I want to cooperate. Really. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” It was surprising how the words flowed when your life was at stake.

He took a deep breath that expanded his slinky disco shirt across his back. Then he turned around to face me.

I didn’t know what kind of childhood this guy had, but I could imagine a two-by-four to the head on numerous occasions. He had that kind of attitude. The kind that begged to be beaten out of him. It was in the way he stood, with his stocky legs spread apart and his hands held low and out in expressive fists. The way he rolled his shoulders forward around a hairy chest, proudly displayed by that open-collared shirt some designer had bastardized modern art to create.

Even if he had not hung me from a hook, I would have wanted to kill him.

“Bet you watch a lot of old TV shows. Am I right?” This wasn’t the time for my snarky attitude, but I gave it anyway. “Or cheesy action films? Because you’ve done a bang-up job with the whole sexploitation thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know this is a cliché, right?”

I was gambling, but I needed time to coax my muscles into action.

Most people would never know the pain of prolonged traction. It began with resistance. The body tensed, the muscles flexed, the mind rebelled. Then came acceptance and relaxation as the vertebrae separated. Shoulders and hips released. Even the knees got a welcome break from their daily compression. It felt kind of good. But it didn’t last. The human body was meant to be supported from the ground up, not hung from delicate wrists. The only factor that kept my predicament from feeling truly horrible was that I could ease some of the tension by standing on my toes.

Suffice it to say I had a new and profound appreciation for ballerinas.

The Ukrainian turned back to the weapons table and got sidetracked by a jar of peanuts. Apparently, capturing women who were trying to break into his employer’s mansion and using them to recreate movie scenes while wearing ’70s reject clothing made a guy hungry. I took advantage of his inattention to raise my legs. No such luck. My sore muscles wouldn’t cooperate.

Once again, I thought of my teacher. “Let your pain flow like water around river rocks—touching, moving, and, ultimately, passing.”

As my pain ebbed and my resolve strengthened, I knew the Ukrainian had failed. He had thought I would feel embarrassed to be displayed like a piece of meat; I wasn’t. He had thought I would feel helpless hanging from a hook; I didn’t. He had thought I would do anything to stop the pain and humiliation.

That time, he was correct.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

 

I couldn’t blame the Ukrainian for what he was doing to me. Not really. I had been a monumental pain in his ass. At first, he had assumed I was a burglar breaking into his employer’s house. But sometime between knocking me unconscious on the patio and thirty minutes ago, he had learned of Kateryna’s and Ilya’s disappearance. That’s when my crime elevated from burglary to kidnapping. I knew this because I had heard Dmitry Romanko yelling it through the Ukrainian’s cellphone. Ilya had not arrived at kindergarten this morning, and Romanko was killing mad.

That’s when the Ukrainian began whipping me with the knotted rope. It wasn’t sexual. It was more like a two-year-old’s temper tantrum. He had gotten reprimanded by his boss and was taking it out on the only person within reach.

Lucky me.

But like most tantrums, the Ukrainian’s had erupted and passed too suddenly for me to capitalize on it. So when I saw him grip the edge of the wooden table and squeeze it as though he wanted to crush it, I was glad. I needed him angry. I needed him to stop playing games. And when his ugly shirt stretched against flexed muscles, I knew I had succeeded. He didn’t want me to give up. I had resisted for too long, disrespected his manhood, injured his fragile Ukrainian pride. He wanted satisfaction.

About time.

I needed him to do something reckless, like grab the hilt of the Fox 599 Karambit. Of all the weapons laid out on his table—pipe, brass knuckles, combat dagger, hatchet—the Ukrainian had chosen the most precise tool of the bunch. I knew because it was mine. I also knew it did not suit him.

I feigned a frightened expression as he swiped back and forth like a batter warming up for the plate. “Where are they?”

I looked away and muttered something I hoped was unintelligible.

“What’s that? Speak up.”

He had chosen the talon-like blade—my blade—to make a point. Bad pun? Sure. But hey, at least I had learned to accept new realities—like hanging from a hook while a sadist threatened me with my own blade.

The Ukrainian smirked. “Maybe I cut out little pieces. What do you think?”

What did I think? I thought he was ready. He had just begun shifting his weight to his left foot, freeing his right for the step that would bring the hooked blade to my chest. I didn’t need to watch the knife; I got all the information I needed from the angle of his hips.

I raised my face, so he could see the terror he wanted to see, and waited for him to pause and breathe—the way he had before every previous attack. Then together, we inhaled. Only, this time, mine was a second shorter than his.

I clenched my abs, brought my knee to my chest, and snapped my leg out to the side. The edge of my shoe caught the nerve on the inside of his right wrist. The shock of the strike loosened his grip and knocked the knife from his hand while the friction of my skin against his tugged him forward.

As one leg finished its job, the other sailed over his head in opposition.

I arced my leg’s descent just a bit, hooked his neck with my foot, and rotated him, face up. The Ukrainian’s larynx crunched between my rising knee and my descending heel.

He wouldn’t be calling me kurva blyat any time soon.

As he crumpled to the cement floor, with what I hoped was a fractured larynx, I grabbed the rope above me and began to swing. In spite of the metal cross support jamming my back, I managed enough momentum to pull my legs over my head and onto the platform above me. This should have knocked the rope off the hook, but it hadn’t. So there I was, balanced on the edge of the platform like a pencil on a finger, with the wood digging into my hips, my back straining to hold its arch, my arms extended to their limits, and my fingers fiddling with the rope. If I allowed my chest to drop, even an inch, the balance would tip and down I would go.

Objects clattered below me as the Ukrainian struggled with his own dilemma. Maybe he’d suffocate before my back seized and I fell off the platform. Then again, maybe not. I tried not to risk my life on maybes.

By the time I untangled the rope from the hook, the trembling in my muscles had become a seismic event, which turned my neat gymnast dismount into a free-falling tumble. No ninja landing for me. Instead, I got caught in an awkward tripod of feet and bound hands.

The Ukrainian grabbed my hair and yanked me to my feet then stuffed my head under his arm and clenched. I tucked my chin like a turtle to protect my carotid artery and trachea, and to buy myself some time. If my wrists hadn’t been tied, I could have snuck a hand around his arm and dropped him with the pressure of a single finger under his nose. However, since this elegant defense was not an option, I slammed my fists into his testicles.

Crude but effective.

I followed this up with a shot to his jaw, the force of which—unfortunately—caused him to fall back onto his table of toys.

This time, he went for the hatchet.

With only a second to decide, I moved in, down, and out—a combination of movements that would keep me safe from a downward, diagonal, or horizontal cut—then I slipped behind him, tossed my bound wrists over his head, and ground my forehead into the back of his neck.

Once again, I had his throat jammed between two precise and deadly forces.

I pulled until my wrists burned and the hatchet clanked to the floor. I pressed until my forehead molded into the back of his neck. I pulled and pressed until his heart stopped beating and his nasty soul skittered off to Hell. And then, I gave the rope one final yank.

He sank to the floor, and I collapsed over his sweaty corpse like an exhausted lover. My long dark hair clung to his pale dead skin. It was gross, no other way to describe it. I wanted to roll away, but I couldn’t move. My back throbbed. My cuts stung. And sometime in the fight my tank top had ripped and I had begun to shiver—a clear sign of muscle failure.

I crawled off his chest and dragged myself forward like an inchworm to where the hatchet had fallen. By then, I was shaking so badly I nearly cut off my toes trying to secure the blade between my feet.

If I had grown up in North Dakota, like my Norwegian father, I might have had an easier time with the cold. But as a California girl? Not so much.

I visualized a hot sidewalk warming my bottom and legs and radiating heat up through my torso. It took longer than the river rock imagery had taken to rid me of pain, but it did the trick. My hands stopped shaking, and I was able to saw through the nylon without shedding any more blood.

I crawled back to the corpse. The sports bra I wore underneath my tattered tank top wasn’t going to cut it. I needed something warmer. Even if it was butt-ugly and rank, it would not be the worst indignity I had suffered this day. I kept that in mind as I undid the buttons of the Ukrainian’s shirt and freed a forest of curly black chest hair. The slinky fabric of his shirt stank of sweat, deodorant, and cologne.

“Suck it up, Lily.”

I held my breath and slid my arms into the clinging sleeves and buttoned every button past my shorts and down to my knees. It had been ninety degrees in the shade earlier this afternoon. Where was that heat now?

My fatigued legs felt cold and stiff. I considered taking the Ukrainian’s pants but was afraid of what I might find underneath. Hot pink briefs? A leopard skin thong? Nothing? Just imagining the possibilities made me want to vomit, which reminded me of what else I needed.

The Ukrainian had supplied himself with water, nuts, and a box of glazed donut holes, the remnants of which still sat on the table. I picked up the bottle and sniffed. The water smelled vaguely of donuts. I drank it anyway, backwash and all. The effects were instantaneous. My mind cleared. My energy boosted. The shivering stopped.

I had clothes, food, water, and a dead Ukrainian.

My situation had vastly improved.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

 

The Ukrainian had imprisoned me in a stalled renovation project in the Mid-Wilshire district about four miles from where I had left Dmitry Romanko’s wife and son. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have used the dead man’s cellphone to call a taxi. But the only thing working at full capacity were my feet. So once I took care of my physical needs, collected my karambit, and wiped down everything I could remember touching, I ran.

It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t pretty. God only knew what I looked like, running down the sidewalk in an oversized disco shirt and my hair plastered against my face. But I made it to Aleisha’s Refuge, staggered up the front step, and fell against the door. I didn’t have energy left to knock. I was done.

A stern, but polite voice commanded me to step away from the door. Aleisha Reiner was a compassionate and welcoming woman, but running a refuge for battered women had made her cautious. I did as she commanded and tried my best not to fall off the step. I heard a squeal through the door, followed by the rattling of a security chain, and the clank of a bolt sliding open.

“Oh sweet Jesus. What happened to you, child? Are you hurt?” Aleisha’s smooth, dark skin wrinkled into deep furrows as her generous mouth, so quick to smile, hung slack with concern. She rubbed her hands along my arms and around my head, checking for injury, then pulled me into a hug. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl. Do you hear?” I jostled against her bosom as she shook. “How you gonna help anyone if you get yourself killed?”

I muttered a response, lost in the pillows of her shirt, then pried myself away. “I’m fine. Honest. I just need to speak with Kateryna.”

Aleisha shook her head. “She’s gone.”

“What do you mean? Did someone take her?” I pictured a gang of Ukrainians dragging Kateryna and Ilya out the door. Then something worse occurred to me. “What about the other women?” I pushed Aleisha away so I could examine her for injury. “Are you okay?”

Aleisha rubbed my arms as if she was calming a new arrival. “Hush. I’m okay. The women are okay. Everybody is just fine.” The low hum of her voice and the soft stroke of her hands took the edge off my anxiety, but I still needed answers.

Aleisha shrugged. “She just took the boy and left.”

I couldn’t believe it. It had taken me three weeks to convince Kateryna to leave her husband and another week to help her gather the necessary documents, keys, addresses, and cash so she could stay hidden and start a new life. We had made arrangements with her cousin in Argentina. All Kateryna had to do was stay with Aleisha until we got her and Ilya on the plane.

“She went back?”

“Uh-huh. To Hancock Pack and that husband of hers.”

I slid down the doorframe and sat, bare legs on cool tile, as the last of my energy rushed out of me like the air from an unknotted balloon.

Kateryna’s dirt-bag lawyer husband worked for the Ukrainian mob.

I worked for Aleisha’s Refuge, kept on retainer to rescue and protect. I didn’t charge much, but what I earned kept my tech and weapons up to date.

Aleisha had assigned me to Kateryna’s case because of the danger and complexity of the situation. Normally, I got the job done neatly and discreetly, using my kunoichi skills to investigate, rescue, and extract. Sometimes things got violent. More often, stealth, coercion, and misdirection sufficed. But this time? I left the question unanswered as Aleisha’s husband hurried to the door.

“Is that Lily?” Stan’s New York accent sounded more pronounced from alarm.

Tears welled in my eyes. Stan had that effect on me. He was shaped like a giant pear, topped with a freckled bald head. He had white fuzzy whiskers and soft shoulders that sloped to a squishy belly and a comfortable lap that was always ready for a sleepy child.

“Why is she on the floor?”

Aleisha must have given him a look because he didn’t ask another question. He simply scooped me up and carried me to the couch. Once I was safely planted, he rustled through a cabinet for a first-aid kit and began tending my wounds. Aleisha went to get food. She must have known I wouldn’t be staying long because she brought me a tamale, still partially wrapped.

I held the corn husk and smelled the steaming cake. “Asadero cheese, fresh roasted corn, and…barbecue ribs?” I took a bite of the heavenly cornmeal and groaned in ecstasy. “And you could open your own restaurant.” Everything Aleisha cooked had a dash of soul and pounds of love.

She rolled her big brown eyes and patted her hairline, where cornrows pulled back into a tight bun. “I have enough people to cook for as it is. What would I want with a restaurant?”

I could have given her several reasons if I hadn’t had my mouth full of sweet savory goodness.

She patted my knee. “You drink that water, and I’ll get you a bottle of tea to go.” By the time Stan had finished speckling me with bandages, Aleisha had returned with the tea and some folded clothes. “I thought you might like something else to wear.” That something turned out to be a pair of dark gray sweatpants, cuffed tight at the ankle, and a matching hoodie. Both were several sizes too big but a welcome improvement from the Ukrainian’s slinky shirt, which I tossed in the trash as soon as I got to the bathroom. Once I had washed the grime from my face, I looked and felt almost normal.

I slipped back into my shoes and braided my hair into a long rope. It hung nearly to my waist, so I wound it into a bun and knotted the end. Then I pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt. I could have been anyone.

Unless someone got close, they wouldn’t notice the high cheekbones I had inherited from my Hong Kong mother or the strong nose of my North Dakota father, or the haphazard way the rest of their genes had muddled together to give me such an identifiable face. I don’t know how it had happened, but Baba’s Norwegian genes had made my Chinese features uncomfortably excessive. My brows arched too high, my nostrils flared too wide, and my lips were pouty and fuller than they needed to be. Even my eyes looked less like Ma’s classic almonds and more like a startled cat.

No one would notice any of that in the dark with the hood of Aleisha’s sweatshirt around my face. They’d see a short person in baggy clothes somewhere between ninety to one-hundred thirty pounds of unknown gender, age, and race. With a description like that, I could walk up to a witness and flick their nose, and they’d never realize I was the person they had seen.

Feeling better than I had all day, I went to say goodbye. Stan wrapped me in his arms and squeezed the air out of me. “You be careful. It won’t take much to open that wound.” He was referring to the gash above my left cheek he had anchored together with a butterfly bandage. “And find yourself a good doctor. You may need stitches.”

His hug crushed me, but I didn’t want it to stop. “I’ll be fine, Stan. I promise.”

Mollified, he stepped back to Aleisha. They made an odd couple, a sturdy black Baptist from Compton and a soft, pear-shaped Jew from New York. But they also made the perfect pair. They devoted their lives to helping others, had cheerful natures, and loved to eat. No wonder we all got along.

“You want a sandwich to go?”

I laughed. Typical Aleisha. “I’ll be fine. With any luck, I’ll be back later tonight with Kateryna and Ilya.”

“You sure you don’t want Stan to drive you?”

“Nope. Taxi will do. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

I never charged for transportation. I didn’t see the point. I lived cheap and traveled on my feet, bike, or mass transit. If I needed something fast and private, I borrowed our restaurant delivery car or ordered a ride. Of course, that required an app. Which I no longer had because the Ukrainian had crushed my phone with the heel of his boot. Had—as in past tense. The Ukrainian was dead.

I didn’t want to think about what I had done. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Stan tapped my forehead. “You don’t worry about that.”

He was referring to the money, not the Ukrainian, but the command still helped. I’d have ample time to mull over the ramifications of my actions, to replay the scene a hundred times until I was certain that what I had done was, in fact, inevitable and just.

But what if it wasn’t?

Stan placed his hands on my shoulders and hunched so he could peer into my eyes. “You did what needed to be done. Now you need to let it go.”

I squeezed back the tears. Like before, he didn’t know, but again his words were a comfort to me. I just hoped I deserved them. It hurt my soul to end a life, no matter how justified. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe my tortured conscience would keep me human.

“I’m going to pay you back.”

He nodded. “Of course you are.”

Stan and I had traveled down this road before. He would pamper me with the taxi tonight, and I would deposit money into his account in the morning. He got to be fatherly and I got to exert my independence. Compromise and balance.

Maybe one day I’d also learn to bury my pride.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

 

Dmitry Romanko lit his family room like a stadium and kept his backyard dark, which made it easy for me to spy on him as he lounged on his couch watching television. I could hear the soccer match and commentary through the screen door. And I could see little Ilya kneeling on the carpet.

If I hadn’t already known this family’s dynamic, I might have thought I was witnessing a Hallmark moment: Dad sitting on the couch watching the game while his five-year-old son colored in a book on the coffee table. I might have felt envious of the peacefulness of their lives. I might have respected the way father and son could be themselves in each other’s presence. But I did know, so I didn’t believe.

Dmitry Romanko had a brutish demeanor he attempted to elevate with metrosexual fashion. He favored tight V-neck tees to show off his pecs, squeezed his muscular thighs into pencil-thin pants, and wore his designer loafers sans socks. He flaunted a heavy gold bracelet and an even heavier gold watch. I had seen the marks of that watch left on Kateryna’s bruised face. But no amount of styling gel, jewelry, or designer clothes could hide his working-class roots.

Ilya, on the other hand, reminded me of a bunny—soft, gentle, and alert.

Romanko slammed his hand on the table. “Pass, you idiot. Did you see that? Shevchenko was wide open. These stupid kids don’t know what they’re doing.”

Ilya held still, ready to bolt.

“Pass, you motherless—” Romanko grabbed an accent pillow from the couch and hurled it at the television. Ilya ducked. Romanko didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. He jumped to his feet and unloaded an angry stream of Ukrainian, like a coach chewing out one of his players for making a boneheaded pass. Except he wasn’t on a field. He was in his home, watching television. Scaring his boy.

As Romanko reached across the table to grab a handful of candy from a crystal bowl, Ilya cowered. Did he expect his father to throw it at the screen or at him? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The fact that Ilya expected something bad to happen was a clear sign of domestic abuse. All of this was lost on Romanko as he leaned back on the couch and tossed the candy, piece by piece, into his mouth.

If he had done nothing other than this, I would have hated him. But when I saw little Ilya’s eyes soften back to their sad half-moon shapes, I wanted to cry. He loved his father. I could see it in his expression and the slight protrusion of his chin, as though he wished his dad would cradle it with his fingers and plant a loving kiss on his nose. My heart broke.

I backed away from the sycamore tree. Time to find Kateryna.

A narrow strip of lawn ran along the side of the Tudor Revival house, bordered by a row of cypress trees and a wooden fence. All of the balconies and dormer windows faced the courtyard or one of the two corner streets. This side of the house was stark, with rough-hewn brick and only a sliver of a bathroom window.

Great for privacy. Lousy for climbing.

It would have been easier to leap and swing my way up to the roof, but the yard was too narrow for generating momentum and the cypresses too flimsy for rebounding. So I dug my fingers between the bricks, wedged a foot onto the corner stone, and began my grueling ascent. Finger climbing required considerable strength. I could do it, but not for long. Using the protrusions of corner stones and gripping the side of the wall helped. Even so, I was trembling something fierce by the time I hooked my heel over the storm drain and pulled myself onto the slate tiles.

Once I recovered, I scampered across the steep grade, past one of the stone chimneys and three of the dormer windows, built into the peaks like tiny houses on cliffs. When I got to the fourth dormer, I slid down its short roof and crawled to the front. As was her custom, Kateryna had left the double windows cracked for ventilation. I reached in and cranked them open. I dropped onto her Persian rug and crossed to the king-sized bed, covered in a plush merlot quilt and dollops of whipped cream pillows. Stylish and comfy.

Sounds from the soccer match floated up from the family room below. Hopefully, Dmitry Romanko would stay put long enough for me to talk some sense into his wife.

I pulled back the hood of my sweatshirt and sat on bench at the foot of the bed, trying to look harmless as I waited for her to come out of the bathroom. Women my size didn’t usually inspire fear. However, Kateryna had become as skittish as her son.

“Lily,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

She had the decency to look abashed, but after the ordeal I had suffered, I wanted a tearful apology. “Why’d you leave?”

She checked the hall then closed the door. “You can’t be here.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“No. You have to go. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want your help.”

Kateryna was a lovely woman with a long, slender neck and delicate bones. She stood taller and weighed less than I did, but still managed to have more curves, as evidenced by the slinky nightie she was wearing. She had what I called a zipper figure: one you could see from the front and back but so thin it seemed to vanish when viewed from the side.

Next to her, I was a crayon.

My waist did not disappear from the side, nor did my thighs. And while her weight went to full breasts and a wide-hipped bottom, mine went to muscle. I had inherited broad Norwegian shoulders, narrow hips, and the limb proportion of my Asian mother. I would never grace the pages of a fashion magazine. Then again, Kateryna would never be able to scale a building.

Her golden ringlets bounced around her face as she tugged me off the bench. “You have to leave.” Plucked and penciled brows raised in high arches. Her lips—lined, painted, and glossed—pursed with tension. Kateryna had other plans for her bed tonight than sleep.

I thought of Ilya in the family room, flinching at every move his father made, and wanted to slap some sense into her. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she care? I glanced down at her lacy nightgown. “What’s going on, Kateryna? You and Dmitry making up?”

She flicked her hand in the dismissive way I had seen her husband do many times, then busied herself picking up his things around the room. “Thank you for your help. But I don’t need it anymore.” She folded his newspaper and set it neatly on the table near the open window.

I wanted to rip it to bits. “Maybe you don’t, but Ilya does.”

That stopped her. “Dmitry would never hurt Ilya.”

“You sure about that? Because in my experience, a man who beats his wife today, beats his kid tomorrow.”

She dropped the act, and for a moment, I thought she might change her mind. Then she shook her head and sent her hair into a bouncing golden frenzy. “You don’t understand. He will find us wherever we go.”

“He didn’t find you at Aleisha’s.”

“He would have.”

“But he didn’t.”

She clicked the tips of her acrylic fingernails. A nervous habit.

“Why did you leave, Kateryna?”

The clicking stopped, and the tears began. “You said you would only be gone an hour, just long enough to get our passports.”

I couldn’t believe she was blaming this on me. “I gave you a list of important documents to put in your escape pack.”

“I was scared.”

I sighed. It had been a long day and was proving to be a frustrating night. I needed to calm my own emotions before I could hope to calm hers.

“Of course you were. You were scared—for Ilya,” I added, wanting to spark her maternal courage. “But that doesn’t explain why you left.”

She wiped her tears and sniffed. “You didn’t come back.”

I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake those golden ringlets right off her head. Instead, I took a breath, reined in my anger, and tried my best to sound reasonable. “I ran into traffic.” It was a plausible lie. I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I? That her husband’s thug had caught me trying to break into her house and knocked me upside the head? No, I wouldn’t be telling that story to anyone. I felt embarrassed enough just knowing I had let it happen. In fact, I planned to lock the whole shameful incident in the vault with the rest of my unpleasant memories.

“I called him,” she said.

“Wait. What?”

“Dmitry worries. So I called him. I told him I was leaving and taking Ilya with me.”

My gut clenched. “Please tell me you didn’t use Aleisha’s phone.”

“I called from my cell.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Why?”

“Aleisha’s home is a refuge. Strictly word of mouth. You can’t tell anyone about it. Ever.”

I saw the familiar bland veil of disinterest descend over her face and grabbed her arms. “I’m serious, Kateryna. You can’t ever tell Dmitry where you were. You’d be putting other lives at risk. Tell me you understand.”

She pulled out of my grip. “I understand.” She rubbed her arms, inadvertently wiping away a bit of body makeup. A purple spot the size of a man’s finger tainted her creamy skin. I imagined three more next to it and a thumb-size spot on the other side—all hidden by a foundation with some romantic name like Alabaster Ivory or Porcelain Nude.

What was I doing? I was supposed to protect women, not bully them.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” When she nodded, I continued in a gentler tone. “When you called…what did he say?”

“That if I did not bring Ilya back, he would find us and send him to Ukraine without me.”

“To his family?”

She nodded. “I would never see him again.” The tears flowed. She blotted them with the back of her delicate hand. “I am not even Ukrainian citizen anymore. Dmitry said I could not be both. But he is.” She sniffed her runny nose and dabbed under her eyes.

It annoyed me that she still cared about her makeup until I noticed the bruises appearing under her thinning foundation. They were fresh. Dmitry had done this to her today.

I stepped back and sat on the bed. I didn’t know what to do. I had worked for Aleisha long enough to know that decisions about when to leave an abusive partner had to be made from the inside. Well-meaning people, like me, could exacerbate a situation and endanger the lives of those they were trying to protect simply by forcing an action at the wrong time.

Was this the wrong time? Kateryna seemed to believe it was. Who was I to say otherwise?

As I struggled with my dilemma, Dmitry bellowed for Kateryna.

She startled like a deer, eyes wide, body tensed for danger. Then she grabbed a silk robe from her vanity chair. “I have to go.” She covered her negligee and tied the sash around her tiny waist. “Please leave the way you came in.”

I lingered at the window and listened to the soccer commentary that carried up from the family room. Ilya would still be coloring when Kateryna answered the call of her wife-beating husband. The situation sucked, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I planted my hands on the table and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw the picture of another blonde, blue-eyed woman staring up at me from the folded newspaper—Mia Mikkelsen.

I recognized her from recent news reports on television. The cocktail waitress had been attacked in her home by a customer, and the press was having a field day maligning her reputation and fawning over her alleged assailant, J Tran. The photos they had chosen confirmed their bias. The shot of Mia made her look like a slutty puffer fish. The photo of Tran looked like the cover for People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.

I sighed. “Bet you could use a big sister, right about now, eh, Mia?”

In addition to working for Aleisha’s refuge, which was funded by Stan’s previous vocation as a New York stock broker and a few celebrity angels, I did what I liked to think of as ninja pro bono work. I watched out for women getting harassed, shamed, or abused and stepped in when no one else would.

If I helped Mia tomorrow, would it make up for my failure today?

I thought about Kateryna’s makeup-covered bruises and wished I was back in that warehouse with the Ukrainian—I could have used someone to punch.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

 

“Okay to take Washington?” the taxi driver asked.

“Sure,” I said. “All the way to Overland.” It was a straight shot southwest. Nothing to screw up. I could just sit back, enjoy the night breeze, and let my muscles cramp one by one.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I felt every bruise and strain. At least the Ukrainian hadn’t broken anything. He had tried to kill me. I had stopped him. Period. End of story.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

But was it the truth?

Had he really been trying to kill me? Or had he been trying to subdue me long enough to hang me back on the hook? Probably the latter, but he would have mutilated me for information. Kateryna would have been found. Aleisha’s Refuge would have been at risk. So, no, it didn’t matter.

But I had also told the Ukrainian my story, the one I had never shared. Because I knew he would not live to repeat it.

I had entered into the story gently enough. I mean, what did I care if some Ukrainian thug knew the origins of my nickname or how Baba had bounced me on his knee? Why should anyone have had to die just because they knew my father had thought my baby belly was stuffed with secrets like Mama’s dumplings?

Besides, that wasn’t even the truth. They weren’t Mama’s dumplings at all. They were Baba’s. He learned to make them to ease her homesickness.

But I hadn’t told the Ukrainian any of my parents’ secrets; I had only told him mine. And not just secrets, either. I had opened the door to my shadow world. I had given him a reason to fear me.

It was easy to fool people when you showed them what they expected to see.

I had spoken those exact words while telling the Ukrainian my story, and in so doing, had told him exactly how I would use his arrogance against him. Was it my fault if he had been too shortsighted to understand? Had I been giving him a chance? Maybe. All I knew was that once I had begun telling the story, the story wouldn’t let me stop.

 

It had happened two years ago, in the summer before my twenty-third birthday. I was sitting in a bar, nursing a drink, pointedly ignoring the people around me. I didn’t like the way they could take one look at me and act as it they knew me, like they knew what I was about. It was profiling, but in my favor. They would take one look at my Asian-ness and assume I was this intelligent, ambitious college girl, struggling to find balance between the strict culture of my ancestry and the wanton opportunities of my youth. The stereotype.

Were they wrong? No. But that was not, as my father liked to say, the meat of the issue. As in my namesake, there were other mysterious ingredients that comprised a dumpling besides pork.

There was a man sitting beside me at the bar. I remembered him being surprised by the sparkling cranberry juice I had ordered. He had probably expected me to have a rebellious affinity for scotch or a predilection for chardonnay. I had friends who would have fit both of those stereotypes. I was neither. I was cautious.

I liked my mind clear, my wits keen, and my legs ready to run. And if I had been inclined to violence, which I wasn’t yet, I would never have needed to be pushed by alcohol.

No. What I wanted most, at that moment, was to run my fingers over every beautiful angle of that man’s stunning face. Wanted but didn’t; I was far too disciplined for that. Instead, I leaned closer and let my hair do the caressing while I blathered about national security, privacy, and the right to bear arms.

Clearly, I had lost all of my good sense.

I remember laughing to myself as he struggled to ignore my hair on his arm and formulate a cogent response to my seemingly contradictory views, and liked him better for it. In fact, I liked him too much.

Everything about him put me at ease and teased me with hope.

So when he ordered a martini and offered me the same, I accepted. The taste was clean, the fruit tart and plump. I remember liking it so much that I considered taking a new name for the evening—put aside Dumpling and call myself Olive. But after hours of conversation, names had not been requested or shared. While normally this would have felt odd, on that night, it felt right and natural, as though there were far more important things to discuss than names.

He pinched the top of my toothpick and swirled the remaining olive, stirring up feelings I had only experienced once before. Was he congratulating himself on the conquest? If so, it was well earned because he had invaded my defenses and made himself at home.

So when he downed the rest of his drink, I did the same.

“We can go,” he said, and waited for me to rise.

He followed behind protectively, like a gentleman. It had been a long time since I had allowed a man to do that.

His car was parked nearby—close enough to be comfortable for me to walk if I had been wearing heels yet far enough to give him a chance to take my hand. It was an endearing gesture and one my compulsion for mobility would normally never have allowed.

At least I was wearing my sturdy boots; I hadn’t forsaken all my good sense.

Although, with the sensual breeze and the warmth of his hand against mine, I was having a hard time remembering why I thought that might be important.

When we arrived at his car—clean, sporty, not excessively expensive—he opened my door and waited for me to fold in my legs. I could feel his admiration, and I understood it. My legs have always been my strongest feature. They might not be model-long, but they had an athletic grace that makes men think of passionate embraces—or so I was once told by a would-be suitor who never had the privilege of helping me into a car.

As we drove, I thought about how out of character all of this was for me: the bar, the martini, the car. I didn’t date. And I definitely didn’t accept invitations from men I had just met. But something about him made me want to give up my lonely quest for vengeance and take a chance on love. Or at least, that’s what I thought was happening.

The more I tried to recall the moment of my decision, the harder it was to remember when I had actually agreed.

The leather seat felt warm against my back. My skin flushed with fanciful thoughts. And my mouth drooped in a dopey smile, betraying feelings I didn’t understand. I looked out the window and tried to hide the thoughts I feared were playing across my face. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

What would have been the right idea?

The streets were dark. There were no neon bar signs, no cozy restaurants, no security-lit establishments. Everything seemed closed for the evening. We had ventured onto unforgiving streets with oppressive buildings and gaping alleys. Streets that were empty except for phantoms huddled near dumpsters.

“Where are we?” And why did my tongue feel like a swollen slug?

I looked over at the man of my dreams, and what I saw was death.

Everything about him had changed. His alluring scent had soured with sweat, and his breath carried ugly words. I searched for signs of that calm, sincere gentleman, and saw a psychopath.

The seat jarred back as he made space to mount me. And I did nothing.

Me, the kunoichi who was never out of control, sat immobile as he ripped open my blouse and hiked up my skirt. I didn’t strike or scream or buck. He had me, and he knew it.

There was a metallic taste in my mouth that I hadn’t noticed before, and it wasn’t cranberries or vermouth. It was medicinal in a way that would have tainted pure vodka. As I struggled to move my unresponsive body, my mind honed in on that swirling olive. His hand had been cupped over my glass as his fingers twirled the toothpick. This monster had dropped something from his palm while I had been gazing into his eyes.

What had I allowed to happen?

My arms hung limp, one beside me and the other perched against the door, as he petted my hair and told me how long it had been since he’d had a China girl like me.

That’s when I saw him—when I really saw him. He wasn’t just a tall, blond hunk in a Hugo Boss suit. He was the same well-dressed predator who had fooled my sister and ended her life.

My numb hand hovered near my necklace, a long silver chain with a dagger-shaped phurba. No one ever commented on it. Why would they? It was just some odd talisman with a carved face on a ceremonial-looking dagger. It was barely four inches long. It wasn’t even sharp. Just a harmless Buddhist artifact. And yet, there it was within reach of my determined, nimble fingers.

As he unfastened his pants, I walked those fingers across my collar bone. As he maneuvered his hips, I folded the carved face of the phurba into my knuckles. And as he shoved his pants to his knees and fumbled with the feeble barrier of my panties, I gripped the base of the dagger.

Make me strong, I prayed.

And then I struck.

He dropped onto my lap, and slapped my face on the way up to clutch at his throat. But there was nothing there to grab. I had removed the dagger to continue my attack. I was gaining control over my arms and used them both to distract and deflect, making it hard for him to understand which hand was inflicting the damage. He could have smothered me with his weight if he had remained calm; instead, he panicked, and a lucky fist hammered my sternum.

The pain was stunning.

I grabbed for my chest as if to hold it in place so the broken plate wouldn’t move. Crazy, I know, but that’s how it felt: as if the only thing holding me together was my hand on my chest. So I kept up the pressure until I was sure nothing would move and my sternum felt solid and secure. Then I stabbed him in the face.

With every strike, I yanked and ripped, tearing his flesh into dog meat with the three-sided dagger. I didn’t need to see the damage. I just kept striking until his strength gave out and his body expired. Then I opened my door and fell onto the curb.

It took several minutes before I stopped shaking, before I had quieted my sobs and spit away all traces of his blood. It took a few more to crawl to my feet, where I swayed until my drugged body grew accustomed to standing. My clothes were ripped. My face and torso were covered in blood. But I was alive.

I was lucky.

I had spent years trolling for the man who had raped and murdered Rose, with only scant descriptions from eyewitnesses to guide me. I knew my fifteen-year-old sister had used a fake ID to get into one of the clubs that catered to the eighteen-plus crowd. I didn’t know if she had done it before.

Had she gotten scared? Had her friends ditched her? Was that why she had texted me? To come and get her?

I’d never know. I’d never responded.

I had abandoned Rose when she needed me most, and all I could do after her death was hunt down her murderer. I played bait in every underage haunt I could find and searched for the tall, blond twenty-something man with the strong jaw, predatory eyes, and out-of-place suit the witnesses had described. I had felt certain I would recognize his ill intent when he came to prey on me.

I was wrong.

I had fallen for his charms, just as my sister had, and had come close to suffering the same fate.

As I staggered away from that car and into the alley, covered in my sister’s killer’s blood, I made a promise to always remain vigilant and never accept what was presented. I would look deep and jump slow. And I would question everything. It would keep me alive. More than that, it helped me keep others alive.

There was no mention in the news of anyone killed that night in that vicinity. Nor could I find any man fitting his description in any of the nearby hospitals. So he had either somehow driven away, or I had suffered a horrifyingly visceral hallucination that had somehow drenched me in blood. Either way, it left me feeling incomplete.

I would never know for sure if Rose’s killer was dead or alive.

***

I leaned my face out the open window of the taxi and let the breeze dry my tears.

The version of the story I had told the Ukrainian had been simple and to the point. The more profound recollections and personal revelations were only now invading my mind. I had told him just enough to relieve my heart of its burden, but not enough to send him running in fear of his life. I had given him reason to respect me but not enough to fear me.

I had given him a chance.

But after sharing my darkest secrets, the Ukrainian, whose death had been burning a hole in my conscience, had only said one thing: “I don’t give a shit.”

Well, if he didn’t, why should I?

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

 

 

I lived in Culver City just past the Sony Pictures lot, where Culver and Washington Boulevards kissed and parted to follow their own jagged trajectories. It was a commercial area filled with everyday stores selling essential products and services for urban survival—auto parts, furniture, dentists, hair salons—plus colorful non-essentials like tattoos, bongs, and bubble tea. We also had several ethnic eateries, which included Wong’s Hong Kong Inn, a restaurant named for my mother and run by my father. I lived on the second floor.

I pulled the sweatshirt hood over my head and hobbled into the alley. Anyone who noticed would assume I was heading for a cardboard bed behind a garbage bin. And if my legs gave out on me, they might be right. However, I was actually heading toward the twin golden dragons emblazoned on the side of our delivery car. I liked to think these dragons, along with the giant version of them that covered the front of our building, protected our family from ill-intent and unexpected disaster.

I could have used some dragon protection today.

I shook off my doubt and limped toward the steps to the kitchen entrance, scanning the alley as I went. No lurking Ukrainians this time, just a bunch of produce crates, flattened cardboard boxes, and trash containers from the smoke shop next door. I punched in the key code and opened the door to a blast of garlic, ginger, and grease. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten much today. Maybe Baba had left me a treat.

Sure enough, a couple of savory pastries waited for me on the prep table. He had also left a bamboo steamer sitting on a wok at the end of the long cooking station. The fire was out, but the pan still radiated a little warmth, so he couldn’t have been gone long. I opened the lid and found two char siu bao and one zòngzi wrapped in bamboo leaves. Char siu bao were pillowy buns filled with barbecue pork. Zòngzi were little presents tied with husk that hid yummy treasures embedded in sticky rice. Sometimes Baba filled them with ground chicken or a paste of sweet red bean. Tonight, I hoped for lap cheong, a ridiculously greasy sausage. My body craved fat, and after the day I had just experienced, a handful of nuts were not going to cut it.

I put my steamed treasures on the plate with the pastries, filled a couple zip-lock bags with ice for my bruised muscles, and headed for the stairs that ran along the back of our narrow building.

Baba had grown up on a North Dakota farm before catching the cooking bug. He liked wide open spaces. So he turned the back third of our building into a kitchen. Fortunately, our takeout business made up for the small dining room and paid for the expense. But while we all benefited from the spacious kitchen, only Baba and I were permitted upstairs.

I glanced at the seventeen-pound Merida road bicycle suspended at a slant on the staircase wall. My legs ached just looking at it. Climbing the stairs felt worse.

I remembered another tiring ascent five and a half years ago when Baba and I had carried my mattress up these stairs for my first night in the apartment. He had been sad. I had been relieved. We had left my furious mother at home to sulk over my “foolish” decision to move away from home for the second time.

The first came just before my eighteenth birthday when I moved into a college dorm. While only an hour from Arcadia, living on the UCLA campus had felt like living in another country. I was free of Ma’s scrutiny and in absolute control over everything I did, where I went, and how I walked in the world. Ironically, I ended up doing many of the same things I had done before, but I did them because they pleased me, not her. I dove into my studies, met new friends, and joined the Wushu team. I kept myself so busy I rarely came home for a meal, let alone a weekend. I even took a holiday retail job so I would have an excuse to stay on campus during winter break. I met Pete, went on dates for the first time, fell in love, and forgot all about Rose.

After Rose died, I moved back home and pulled away from my college friends, especially Pete. My first experience of making love would always be linked to my sister’s rape and murder. How could I be with Pete? I couldn’t even speak to him. I deleted his calls and messages, dropped out of school, and put all my energy into training in the park with Sensei. But after living in a college dorm for a year, moving back home was intolerable. Rose’s spirit clung to every square inch and flooded me with memories—here we sat, there we fought, around the corner we hid. Every space reminded me of Rose.

Had she forgiven me? Had Pete? Five and a half years later, I still wrestled with my ghosts.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

 

 

A faint glow from Baba’s office guided me up the last few stairs. He left the door open and a light on, supposedly to help me find my way to the washer and dryer we kept in the back. I suspected the real reason was because he didn’t like me traversing stairs in the dark. I laughed. Even when he wasn’t with me, Baba could brighten my mood.

I glanced from his empty office, open and inviting, to my closed and locked apartment door. That pretty much summed us up.

It wasn’t always this way; I used to be fun. I signed up for the dorm activities committee my first week at UCLA. And I always had a ton of friends. Ma used to complain that I spent too much time with friends and not enough time studying. Never mind that I only saw those friends during Saturday Cantonese class, Wushu practice, or school functions. She didn’t care about that. To her, any time not spent actively studying in my room constituted gross indolence. Fun and happiness took a back seat to diligence and duty—the back seat of a very long bus.

I balanced my plate of food and tucked the Ziplocks of ice under my arm so I could punch in the key code. I had convinced Baba to use electronic locks because I didn’t like carrying jagged objects in my pockets—who knew when I’d have to roll off a scaffold? The staff liked the convenience. Baba liked the ability to change access codes. Everybody won.

My apartment was almost as dark as the stairs, with only a faint glow dripping in through the glass doors at the far end. I hit the master switch and illuminated the long apartment like a diorama—I’d had enough of shadows for one night.

First came my entrance hall with a cubbyhole bench for my shoes and a wall that separated the entry from a walk-in closet and bathroom. Next came my sleeping quarters, sectioned off by a long Chinese chest of drawers and an antique wooden folding screen on the side of my bed that partitioned it from the living space beyond. A gifted craftsman had carved the top and bottom of each of the six panels with typical Chinese designs and used fabric inlays to portray herons standing in a garden of flowering reeds and wisteria. Each night as I lay in my bed, I found new images in the carvings. Each morning, I discovered new secrets in the garden. When I stood in the entry, as I did now, the soft light from my living area shone through the carvings and dappled my bed with lovely designs.

I slipped off my shoes and padded down the hardwood floor, glancing at the treasures I kept: meditation malas, a brass singing bowl, my silver phurba necklace, a porcelain figure of Quan Yin, and photos of Rose and my Chinese ancestors, around which I had placed offerings of incense, rice, and salt. Despite these accoutrements, I didn’t think of myself as religious. I practiced Buddhism; I didn’t worship—a distinction I took great care not to debate with Ma. She saw Buddhism as a religion. I saw it as a philosophy. Sometimes the two overlapped. Sometimes they didn’t. The same could be said of Ma and me, although our differences more resembled the hardwood of my entry-sleeping quarters and the firm mat of my dojo.

Yep. I had a martial arts studio in my apartment. How cool was that?

It occupied the middle portion of my home, which meant I had to cross over the slightly raised platform of interlocking squares in order to travel from one end of my apartment to the other. The squares had been painted to resemble tatami mats, giving the twenty-by-twelve space the appearance of a Japanese room in an otherwise Chinese-American home.

Baba once asked why I used the Japanese rather than Chinese name for my training studio, but the answer felt too involved for me to explain. In the end, I just told him it was a martial arts thing. But that wasn’t the truth. Dojo meant “place of the way.” I used that name because my “way” changed when I discovered the ancient art of the ninja.

The wooden folding screen didn’t just separate my dojo from my bedroom, it served as a cultural partition between the Japanese art I studied and the Chinese-Norwegian heritage of my birth. On the dojo side, I could honor my martial way and follow the Shinto practices related to the art. On the other, I could honor my Chinese Buddhist ancestors then wrap myself in the Norwegian Rosemaling quilt my father’s mother had stitched for me. The screen helped me compartmentalize. Even so, there were times when each of the three cultures pulled so strongly, I couldn’t figure out who I was. So instead, I focused on who I aspired to be: a protector of women.

I paused in front of the Vermilion wall of my dojo. I had painted every other wall of my apartment, except for this twelve-foot section, the soothing shade of the palest green to remind me of nature and inspire harmony. The Chinese red at the head of my dojo served another purpose. Like most things related to Asian culture, color was symbolic. Vermilion had the dual meaning of prosperity and danger. When I looked at it, I thought of firecrackers exploding in the streets of Chinatown.

Hóng, hóng, huǒ, huǒ! Red, red, fire, fire!

It was a wish for our lives to prosper and expand while at the same time cautioning us of danger. That caution hadn’t helped Rose, but it helped me protect women like Rose who might need a big sister to look out for them.

Red fueled me with the passion to fight. Green reminded me of the harmony I needed to survive. To this end, I turned my home into a vast field of fragile new grass with one dangerous spark of fire.

Why so much green and so little red?

Because fighting was easy. Tranquility was hard.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

 

I woke to the sticky feel of plastic against my stomach and my face mashed into a cushion. The couch? I cracked open my eyelids and got a close-up view of a rust-colored world. Definitely the couch. I rolled back, peeled the zip-locks from my skin, and inched out of the borrowed sweatpants. Dry clothes waited at the other end of my apartment, but no article of clothing merited forty steps.

I swung my bare legs over the edge of the couch and stared out at my view. The restaurant signboard took up the whole second-story face of our building, so I was basically looking at a wall. Or would have been if Baba had not applied his Midwest ingenuity to creating a balcony paradise. I couldn’t see much blue, but I saw a whole lot of green. I even had a chaise lounge for the fleeting minutes when the sun passed directly overhead. I didn’t indulge often. Every time I sat out there, I could hear Ma’s voice telling me to stay out of the sun.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to think of Ma this early in the morning. I’d much rather have a cup of tea. And since my tea station was seven steps away on the office side of my living space, I could have it.

My left thigh trembled as I stood. The Ukrainian had favored a forehand swing with his right hand, so the whole left side of my body felt tenderized. I hadn’t looked, but I imagined a colorful pattern of knot-sized bruises emerging. No big deal. My body and I had an agreement: I kept it strong and healthy, and it tolerated my abuse.

I hobbled to the border of my dojo and office where my electric kettle sat on a tiny fridge under a shelf of whole-leaf tea tins. Loose or sachets, never bags. I detested those flat relics that crushed tea into dust. Leaves needed room to expand or they brewed weak. The same might be said for people. It certainly applied to me.

Beside the kettle, on the balcony side of my office, stood my water cooler and an enormous wall map, care of the of Los Angeles County Metropolitan Transit Authority. The Metro map showed the color-coded routes of every bus, rail, and subway—most of which I had memorized. To the left of this, was my L-shaped computer desk, cabinets, and shelves. With tea in hand, I fired up the computer.

I had been out of contact for almost twenty hours, which was a long time for any millennial. Even me. Not that I did the whole social media thing. Not anymore. I didn’t want people knowing my business, and the stuff my old friends posted annoyed me. Every smile, hug, and cheerful status reminded me of how things used to be. It had been cleaner to sever the ties. However, while I no longer had my own accounts, I did troll social media to assist others—not just the women I tried to protect but Baba’s web-clueless friends.

Every morning, I checked the pertinent sites to make sure no one was ruining their brand or disclosing personal information that could put them in danger. A lot of harm could be done with a carelessly worded phrase or an ill-framed photo. And that didn’t include location tagging and timestamps. People shared so much more than they should.

Fortunately, Ma had set up Internet ground rules for me as a child that made erasing my web presence as an adult easier than it might have been. The number one rule was that I had to use an alias. I chose Rooster, my Chinese zodiac, and used an ink-brush watercolor of the bird as an avatar. I thought it was cool, so I didn’t mind. But her rules about photos were aggravating. I was the only kid I knew who wasn’t allowed to post pictures of herself. And if any of my friends posted a group photo with me in it—from Wushu or school events—they had to list me only as L. Wong, the Chinese equivalent to J. Smith.

A Google search for L. Wong led to forty-three million hits.

And those hits weren’t just for women. Even if someone managed to track down a group photo with me in it, they’d have a heck of a time matching the androgynous name to all the likely candidates. Over seventy percent of Arcadia High School students and California Wushu competitors were Asian. Figuring out which Chinese kid was me would drive someone nuts.

In theory.

If Ma had considered the patience of a tenacious stalker, she would have kept me off the net entirely. When Violet Wong set the rules, she expected them to be followed. Any school or organization that had the temerity to print my first name, got an immediate and caustic message. Ma’s temper was legendary in Arcadia. Lily Wong could not be listed, and Rooster and L. Wong could never meet. Not ever.

Rose got off easy. By the time she came of age, Ma had mellowed. Or perhaps it was a case of second child syndrome. Either way, Ma got it wrong: Rose had been the wild child, not me. Not that I was shy. Like any person born under the dynamic sign of the rooster, I gravitated to the spotlight. I had the kind of magnetism that drew attention and got people involved. Baba claimed I had come out of the womb crackling with energy. Ma remembered it differently: “You were born vain, Lily. The first thing you did was wipe the gunk from your face so you could flirt with the doctor.”

All that changed after Rose died.

For the first few months, everyone in my life tried to cajole me back to my former Rooster self. The Wushu team, my dormmates, the UCLA orientation committee. Everyone missed my enthusiastic participation. So regardless of how boastful Ma claimed I was, some of it must have been merited. Of course, they all gave up trying to get me back when I dropped out of college, including Ma. So I disappeared.

I killed my Rooster accounts on social media, didn’t do anything newsworthy, and let my Internet presence get buried beneath the weight of two point eight billion users.

Everything I took from me, I gave to Baba, turning him into a local star and making his restaurant website the envy of our hodge-podge community. Customers flocked to taste the authentic dishes prepared by Hong Kong Vern—a big-boned, big-hearted, Viking farmer from North Dakota. Wong’s Hong Kong Inn thrived, and Baba gave me the credit.

It was all very ninja, just not in the way most people imagined. But, of course, that was the point.

I hadn’t trained in the shadow arts to become an assassin. I had done it to help, empower, and protect. Even at the age of twelve, when I had first started training with Sensei, I had a feeling that, one day, life would try to beat my family.

I needed a way to fight back. I needed a way to win.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

 

My inbox held an assortment of newsletters and notices, which I’d probably delete unopened, along with five emails from Ma that I might, or might not, read later in the day. I also had an emergency email—marked with a yellow exclamation mark no less—from Debbie, our neighborhood hairdresser, who “desperately” needed to embed a celebrity’s tweet in her blog.

Seriously? That was an emergency?

I took a fortifying sip of tea, sent Debbie a quick explanation and link to an instructional YouTube video, then moved on to what I really cared about: Monday’s SMG notices.

Each of the special mailing groups notified me of new activity concerning court cases I followed via PACER, a government site that offered public access to court electronic records. The Federal Judiciary service gave me—and anyone else who wanted to register—access to court dockets, transcripts, and electronic case files. PACER allowed me to track the progress and outcome of trials involving the women Aleisha had hired me to help and anyone else who piqued my interest—like the cocktail waitress getting vilified by the press.

The first notice that popped up was for Mia Mikkelsen. It had to be a sign.

Like any good Chinese, I paid attention to cosmic communications. Did that make me superstitious? Probably. But my intuition, or whatever people wanted to call it, had saved my ass on too many occasions to ignore. Right now, the signs were telling me to attend the preliminary hearing. I checked the clock. If I hurried, I could get there in time to see a scumbag brought to trial.

Or so I had hoped.

By the time I had changed into paralegal-type clothing and caught a rideshare to the Los Angeles Airport Courthouse, the prelim was done and the sidewalk swarmed with protesters and news crews. One crew in particular had a sweet setup in front of the building’s architectural centerpiece: a ten-story, green-glass cylindrical stairwell.

As I approached, three reporters raced out of the building. The one leading the pack was a pretty blond in an electric fuchsia dress. She stormed through the protesters toting signs denouncing victim-shaming, and headed straight for the two-man team in front of the stairwell.

“Prelim’s over. You set?”

The cameraman nodded. “Just need you.”

His partner dashed into the electronic news gathering where I could see him donning a headset in front of a control panel and video screen. The reporter checked herself in the mirror, blotted her pancake makeup, inserted an earpiece, brushed her tresses so they fell artfully in front of her shoulders, and took her position to await her cue with a frozen smile.

“Thank you, Randy. I’m standing in front of the Los Angeles Airport Courthouse where the People v Tran preliminary hearing just ended in a shocking dismissal. As you can see from the signs behind me, this case has sparked strong emotions concerning what these protesters are calling ‘victim-shaming’. For almost two weeks, defense attorney Curtis Pike has used the media to paint alleged victim Mia Mikkelsen as a promiscuous, jilted woman out for revenge. Today, he also cast doubt on Mikkelsen’s friend—who claimed to have seen a man of Tran’s height and size in motorcycle leathers fleeing Mia’s bedroom—by arguing that Tran did not own a motorcycle nor did his boot fit the print left in Mikkelsen’s garden. In the end, Judge Michelle Bulman ruled that while there was enough evidence to suggest a crime had been committed, there was insufficient evidence pointing to Tran as the perpetrator.”

I headed for the courthouse entrance without waiting for the back and forth between reporter and anchor. I had heard enough. Not even a trial? Are you kidding me?

Unlike the judge, I didn’t need sufficient evidence to keep an eye on Tran. And I sure as heck didn’t buy the boot defense: shoe sizes were easy to disguise.

For me, it came down to whether or not I believed Mia.

I did.

Her story seemed plausible. Her suffering felt real. And her conviction had never wavered, even in the face of public ridicule. She could have dropped the charges and been forgotten in a month. Instead, she had held fast.

Mia needed a big sister now more than ever.

I entered the building and sailed through security. No one cared about the sharp wooden spike securing my hair in a tidy bun. I collected my satchel, repositioned my scholarly, prescription-free glasses, and went in search of the docket. People v Tran was assigned to courtroom three eleven. After a glance at the crowd in front of the elevators, I opted for the stairs. I didn’t want to miss catching Mia, and since I looked as though I belonged, I wasn’t concerned about getting caught in the news team’s background footage.

Despite my hurry, I paused before exiting the stairwell. Barging out the door was a sure way to draw attention. So, I took a breath and walked out of the stairwell with purpose, another paralegal heading for a courtroom. Normal. Expected.

I found Mia staring out the wall of windows as her attorney, a rather severe-looking woman in her mid-forties, tried to engage her in conversation. I moved close enough to hear.

“I understand if you don’t want to make a statement down there, but I need to.” When Mia didn’t respond, the attorney shrugged. “Call my office if you have any questions. I’m sorry this didn’t work out as we hoped.”

Mia continued to stare out the window as though someone in that vast expanse might be able to tell her why she had lost. I didn’t expect her to find an answer anytime soon, so I looked back the way I had come.

Although J Tran had his back to me, I recognized him from his stance. This was the other reason I believed Mia’s story: he stood like a fighter.

I had noticed this before in video coverage, when reporters were clamoring for a statement. Tran had stood just as he did now—feet spread apart, arms hanging loose at his side, and utterly still. While his defense attorney swayed and gesticulated, Tran occupied space. He didn’t rock or shake his head. Instead, he held his back straight, his shoulders broad, and his head canted slightly as though he might be looking down his nose.

But it wasn’t just his posture, it was the way his suit fit—as though it were tailor made—and the way his long hair hung in perfect waves.

He intimidated simply by being.

If I hadn’t known who he was, I would have guessed him to be a celebrity athlete of some kind, a welterweight boxer perhaps, or maybe a quarterback, or even an actor—God knew there had been enough of them tried in this courthouse.

I glanced at Mia, still gazing at the view. The giant Dane didn’t fit with either of these men. She had a generic Scandinavian appeal with a curvaceous figure and tremendous height. Even in modest two-inch heels, Mia dwarfed every man in sight.

I stood at the window, using her for cover as I watched Tran’s reflection. Would he opt for a quick elevator ride, a dramatic descent down the glass stairwell, or a back staircase escape?

Mia must have felt my energy because she turned to see who was rude enough to invade her privacy. What I saw changed my assumption. She wasn’t annoyed; she was defeated.

“Sorry about the dismissal.”

She blinked her sad blue eyes. “I thought it would go to trial.”

I nodded. “Me, too.”

She stared up at the sky as if the angle might stop her tears. It didn’t.

I gave her a moment of privacy and checked on Tran. He and his lawyer had parted ways. Defense Attorney Pike took the glass-encased stairway, where the camera crews could record his grand entrance. Tran did what I would have done: he escaped down the back.

Down below, Mia’s attorney addressed the reporters.

“What do you suppose she’s saying?” Mia asked, more to herself than to me.

“Whatever paints her and the district attorney in a good light. I wouldn’t worry though; she won’t say anything negative about you. She’ll blame the loss on victim-shaming.”

“And him?”

Defense Attorney Pike had taken center stage.

I shook my head. “You don’t want to know.”

Mia turned away in disgust. “Do I know you?”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t think so. But you obviously know me. Then again, who doesn’t, right?”

I shrugged. “The media hasn’t been fair to you.”

“Ya think?”

“I don’t think, I know. I’ve been following your case since the story hit the news.”

She snorted then heaved a long and frustrated sigh. “So who are you?”

It was a good question. I thought about which name to give. Lily Wong had done a lousy job saving Kateryna and Ilya. And Rooster, my social media avatar, was dead. It might be time for a new name. I thought of Baba.

“Call me Dumpling.”

Mia laughed. “Seriously?” She seemed about to say more but waved it away. “So, Dumpling, what do you want? I mean, no offense, but why are you even talking to me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too popular anymore.” She made the pronouncement then turned back to the view. The LA basin went on forever, until the buildings shrank to dots and the dots blended into the horizon.

For a large woman, Mia suddenly seemed very small.

“That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re alone at a time when you shouldn’t be.”

“Funny how that worked out.”

I ignored the attitude. “What about the eyewitness? She’s a friend, right? Why isn’t she here with you? Or your boss from the Siren Club? I would have thought he’d have a vested interest in all this.”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

“He fired you? And the protesters don’t have his head on a stick?”

“They don’t know. And he didn’t fire me. I quit, with three months’ pay.”

I understood. People were distancing themselves from Mia to avoid the taint of crazy. It made me angry.

Mia shrugged it off like it didn’t matter. “Did you see where Tran went?”

“He took the back stairs.”

She ground her fists into her temples and moaned. “Great. What if he’s waiting for me in the parking lot? What if he comes back to my apartment? It’s not like I can call the cops, right? I mean, what’s to stop him from attacking me again? What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Mia wasn’t looking for answers. She needed to vent until all her fears had been expressed and her emotions exhausted. Without a friend to listen, I became the receptacle for her angst. The more she dumped, the more she trusted.

“That smug bastard can do whatever he likes. The cops aren’t going to help me. And the judge dismissed the restraining order. Everyone thinks I’m a vindictive bitch. Even my friends at the club won’t talk to me.” She choked out another laugh. “Like I’m going to start accusing everyone I know of rape and murder. Give me a fucking break! I’m the victim, and they’re all treating me like a goddamn criminal.” Snot trickled out of her nostrils as she sniffed and gasped herself back into control. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I think I’ll just stay here awhile.”

“Would it make you feel safer if I walked you to your car?”

She sniffed. “It might.” The realization made her laugh. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Not at all. Tell you what, if you like, I could even drive home with you, check out your place, make sure he’s not around.”

That’s when she gave me the look.

Not the one that said: Are you a psycho-stalker planning on torturing and killing me in my own home? That would have been intelligent. No. Mia gave me the other look, the one that took in my sex and small stature and discounted me. I tried not to feel insulted.

I held out my empty hands and shrugged. “Just offering.”

She back-pedaled so fast I thought she’d fall off her two-inch heels. “I’m sorry. Of course. You’re just being nice. And I’m feeling bitchy.”

“Understandable.”

“Look. I don’t mean to be ungrateful or anything, but I still don’t get why you want to help.”

I took a breath. Mia’s question was bigger than she imagined.

“Forget I asked,” she said, letting me off the hook. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right? But do me a favor, will you? If he tries to kill me again, could you at least get a good look at his face?”

I laughed. “Mia, if J Tran tries to kill you, getting a look at his face will be the least I do.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

 

 

Mia glared as if I had run over her dog—twice.

“I thought you were going to walk me to my car.” Her voice trembled.

“I will. But first I want to check out the garage. Okay? But don’t worry, when you come out of the elevator, I’ll be there.” She didn’t believe me, but I continued as if she did. “Don’t acknowledge me. Just walk to your car, get in, and lock the doors. Then I want you to check your emails.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I want you to have a logical reason to wait. When I feel it’s safe, I’ll get in, and we can go.”

“And if it’s not? If something happens?”

“Then drive to the nearest police station.” I held up my hand. “I know. They don’t need to believe what you say, but you do need to go on record as having said it.” I waited for her nod of acceptance. “One more thing, where are you parked?”

Armed with a description and location of Mia’s car, I headed for the back stairs. On the way, I pulled out my cellphone. It was a backup that I had bought a year ago just in case some Ukrainian asshole crushed mine beneath his disco boot—okay, maybe not that exact scenario, but something equally unexpected. I also grabbed an empty soda cup that had been left on the rim of a trash can—it couldn’t hurt to have another prop. I had a phone, a drink, an over-stuffed satchel, and black-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down my nose.

When I entered the garage, I looked like an over-burdened, unobservant paralegal, scrolling through her phone. In actuality, I had positioned the screen in front of my face so I could scan the garage.

Several cars drove through the aisles. One woman in a parked car checked her appearance in the sun visor mirror. Five people exited the elevator and split in different directions. And one fit-looking couple left their Jeep and headed for the stairs I had just come down.

No sign of Tran.

Mia drove a bright red Ford Focus, so it was easy to find. I was glad to see an affordable compact, well within my paralegal’s budget, parked next to her on the passenger side. When I got there, I put the cup on the roof and dug into my satchel as though I were hunting for keys. I wasn’t. I just wanted time to check the interior of Mia’s car, which appeared to be empty.

I feigned dropping my keys and looked underneath. No sign of feet.

I grabbed the drink off the roof and headed for the elevator.

This time, I had my phone in the satchel and the strap positioned securely on my shoulder. Anyone watching me would have already made their assumptions. I wanted freedom of movement in case things went bad.

Every garage in Los Angeles had a trashcan near the elevator. The courthouse was no exception. As I approached with my cup, the bell chimed and the doors opened. I saw Mia but pointedly ignored her. Instead, I dumped my drink in the can and let my gaze roam aimlessly around the lot. Not only did that give me the appearance of bored disinterest, it helped me keep a soft focus. I noticed more when I wasn’t searching for something specific. There was a life lesson in that, but now wasn’t the time to consider it.

When Mia moved, I followed at a distance close enough to intercept a knife attack, stop an abduction, or possibly shove her to cover if I spotted a gun. If Tran used a sniper rifle, she’d be screwed. But short of that, I had everything under control.

When Mia got to her car, she did exactly as I had instructed: she locked the doors and scrolled through her phone. No one seemed to care. Then I noticed a car backing out of a parking space a few lanes away. Nothing unusual in that, except the vehicle was a Mustang GT. Drivers of muscle cars liked to flex their power, especially in parking garages where their rubber tires could squeal against polished cement. So why wasn’t this guy expressing his inner Vin Diesel?

I slowed my pace until I had stopped behind Mia’s car—feigned digging for her keys and not paying attention to whomever she might be inconveniencing. The GT stopped as well. Not a good sign. I looked around, as if suddenly aware that I might get run over. During that brief scan, I checked on the driver. The tinted window obscured his face. I offered a vague, apologetic wave and stepped back toward Mia’s driver’s-side door, eliminating any clear shot the driver might have had.

Could I have gone on the offense and confronted the guy? Sure. But if this was Tran, I didn’t want him to know Mia had someone watching over her. I also didn’t want to blow my cover in case I needed to follow him later. So instead, I brought out my phone and pretended to answer a call, which gave me a reason to wait and an excuse for adjusting my position. People rarely stood still while on the phone. I used that tendency to shield Mia, conceal my face, and check on the GT—which is why I saw the door open.

The man exited in a hurry and headed for his trunk. I still couldn’t tell if he was Tran because he kept his body stooped and hidden behind his driver’s side door; nor could I see if he held anything in his hands or what he might eventually pull from his trunk.

Too many variables. Too much unknown.

I dropped the phone into my satchel and looped the leather strap around my wrist. Armed with a swingable weapon, I charged. When I glimpsed wheat-colored hair, I realized my mistake. With a tilt of my wrist, I guided the whirling satchel over the man’s head and allowed the force of the arc pulled me off balance.

He rushed to my aid, reaching out a hand to help me off the cement. “Are you all right? What happened?”

I twittered with feigned embarrassment and waved away his proffered hand. “I’m fine. Really.” I struggled to my feet in a most inelegant fashion. “I must have slipped on grease.” I repositioned my glasses, searched the dry cement for the culprit, and finding nothing to blame, offered a goofy smile. “Guess I’m just clumsy.”

The guy chuckled. Not only was he not Tran, he was as clueless as a college movie frat boy, the kind who downed Jell-O shots, scored easy hookups—and drove muscle cars. Even if I hadn’t been dressed as a mousy paralegal, a guy like him wouldn’t have been interested in a woman like me, as evidenced by the way he turned to shut his trunk without so much as a glance down my blouse.

“Just be careful, all right?” he said with a smirk. “You might hurt someone.” His tone sounded so patronizing he might as well have patted me on the head.

I laughed it off and added a couple of snorts for good measure.

“Who, me?” I shook away the ridiculous notion and headed back toward Mia’s car, grateful for the guy’s condescending dismissal. Had he been a tad smarter or mildly observant, I would have had a lot of explaining to do. Regardless, I still felt good about my decision to attack. If the frat boy really had been Tran with a gun, I wouldn’t have had time to react, and Mia and I would be another LA shooting statistic. So when I got into the passenger seat and the frat boy gunned his GT—as I had expected him to do from the start—and peeled off with a squeal of rubber so loud Paul Walker could have heard it in racecar Heaven, I smiled.

Mia cringed. “I hate that sound.”

“Really?” I watched the GT speed around the corner. “I find it kind of comforting.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

 

 

Mia tossed her bag and sweater on the bleached-wood table near the front door and strode across the Mexican tiles. “You want something to drink?” She disappeared into the kitchen before I could answer and came back with two opened bottles of Corona. “I don’t know about you, but I need something stronger than a Coke.”

I wandered toward the bedroom, encouraging her to leave mine on the coffee table. The only drink I wanted before noon was tea. And not the generic Lipton’s that I’d no doubt find in her cupboard; I meant honest-to-god tea. I chuckled as I thought about Baba. Sometimes, nothing said it better than one of his North Dakota expressions. Honest-to-god. Period. End of story—the list went on and on. See about was another. I’d definitely have to see about a cup of Dragonwell after I left Mia’s.

I shook my head. The lack of sleep was taking a toll. I felt punchy, which of course made me think about yesterday’s beating. Punchy. Beating. I snorted back a laugh and covered it with a succession of coughs.

Mia came to the doorway, beer in hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. I’m fine.” I needed to get my errant mind under control, so I focused on the decorative white bars on the window. Nothing amusing about them. Urban Los Angeles had turned security bars into a fashion statement. Too bad it hadn’t been more effective. “Just the one bedroom?”

“Yeah, I live alone. No roommates.”

“What about your friend who interrupted the attack?”

Mia shook her head. “We were plastered. She didn’t want to drive home.”

“Huh. I’m surprised that didn’t come up in the prelim.”

“Oh, it did. Pike painted us both like a couple of drunks.”

I snorted in disgust but didn’t comment. We didn’t have time to dive down that rabbit hole, I had an apartment to assess.

Mia lived in a second-story unit of a Spanish-style fourplex in the moderately upscale Fairfax District. The street was well lit, the windows secured, she had reason to feel safe. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost a year.”

I nodded—long enough to grow complacent. “No burglaries in the neighborhood?”

“None that I know of.”

When I returned to the living room, Mia had plopped herself onto the couch, kicked off her sandals, and propped her feet on the table. I opened the balcony doors. “He came through here?”

“That’s the theory. Nice, huh? Just my luck to get stalked by Spider-Man.”

The balcony extended a few feet beyond the exterior walls of the building and hung over the lower unit’s picture window. Wavy horizontal iron bars covered the front and sides of the balcony box and anchored into decorative stucco corner pieces. The combination was reasonably attractive and offered a bit of privacy without affecting the view, but no amount of style could keep this place from feeling like a prison. At least, not to me. Did Mia feel the same? Perhaps on a subliminal level she did because the balcony furniture had a thin layer of dust as if she hadn’t used it in a while. I checked the floor. The path from the corner to the door seemed a little cleaner than the area around it. Could it have been brushed with the sole of a motorcycle boot? Very likely.

“Any other theories?” I asked.

“That he came in through the front door.”

“Wasn’t it locked?”

Mia gave me another one of her looks.

I held out my hands in peace. “Just asking.”

“Sorry. Let’s just say that there was some question as to whether or not I let him in.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay.” I held out my hands again. The gesture was becoming redundant. Mia had her offense-o-meter on a hair trigger. I couldn’t blame her. Unless, of course, Pike was right about her being an obsessed nut case. I didn’t want to consider that possibility. Not yet.

I searched the balcony for the easiest access with the least street visibility. The landlord kept the landscaping trimmed neatly and the branches of the coral tree sufficiently distanced. No opportunity there. Jumping from a neighboring structure or climbing down from the roof would have been too visible and needlessly risky. That left the side yard. A rain gutter ran along the bottom of the balcony then angled down on the building. I pointed to a gate. “He probably climbed up from there.”

“What about the spikes?”

“If his soles were hard enough, he could have stood on them with no problem. And if not, he would just need enough space between them for the toe of his boot.”

“So much for security.”

I shrugged. “Spikes on walls and gates are mostly a visual deterrent. They won’t stop a determined climber.” I didn’t mention that I knew this from experience. “Aluminum gutters are generally too flimsy to hold a man’s weight, but if you look closely, you can see that this one is bracketed to the wall just below the base of the balcony. That makes it more likely to stay attached, especially for the short amount of time that Tran would have needed to reach the lip of the balcony floor.”

She took a swig of beer. “Well, isn’t that just peachy?”

I ignored the comment and leaned over the railing to check the yard. “I heard something about a boot print?”

“Yeah, next to the gate. But they said it wasn’t his.” Mia snorted her opinion of that likelihood, finished off her beer, and pointed to mine. “You gonna drink this?”

“Go ahead.” The last thing I needed was alcohol. “It might not have been his boot, but I’d say whoever attacked you climbed up from that gate.”

“Oh, it was his boot, all right. I could feel the hard soles of them digging into the sides of my legs while he tried to strangle me with my own fucking nightgown.”

“And you’re sure it was Tran?”

Mia glared. “I’m sure.”

“And I’m just asking, remember?”

“Sorry. I’m tired of being called a liar.”

“I get it.”

I sat on the chair next to her and took off my glasses so I could rub the tired from my eyes. Then I pulled out the wooden spike that held my hair in place. There wasn’t any need to perpetuate my paralegal image, and the tight bun was giving me a headache. I shook the hair down my back. It added to the heat of an already hot day, but I didn’t care: the relief felt wonderful.

“So, Dumpling…you never did tell me that story. What’s your deal?”

I shrugged. “Just someone trying to help.”

“Someone who knows how to break into a second-story apartment? I don’t think so.”

She deserved an answer, but since I didn’t know which to give, I pulled a Joe Friday and stuck to the facts. “I’ve been following your case ever since the attack hit the news. I came down to the courthouse to see if it would go to trial.”

“But why would you care?”

I paused. Should I tell her about my dead sister? Not much of a selling point. Or maybe I should tell her about the signs—the article I saw in Kateryna’s bedroom and the first case of the first SMG notice first thing in the morning. Or I could just come clean and tell her I needed a pro bono win to make up for my professional failure.

Yeah. Maybe not.

“You’re a woman who needs help,” I said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No. It isn’t. I let you into my car and my apartment because I was scared, but now that I’m home, I’m starting to worry more about you than him. So if I’m going to trust you, I need more than ‘You’re a woman who needs help.’”

There was steel in Mia’s gaze that hadn’t been there before. She demanded the truth.

“I lost someone to violence,” I said, “If I’d been there, I could have stopped it.”

“What makes you think you can stop whatever’s happening to me?”

“Training, experience…sheer force of will? I don’t have a résumé for this sort thing. But I guarantee you’ll be safer with me than without.”

She thought about that for a moment, took a swig of my beer, then shrugged. “Okay. What have I got to lose?

I gave her a long, hard stare. “Unfortunately, quite a lot.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

 

 

The best way to help Mia was to learn more about Tran. So I caught the Metro Rapid Bus Line to Culver City, transferred onto the C-1, and ran the last block home. It took me forty-five minutes—only ten minutes longer than it would have taken me to drive and park.

And Ma wondered why I used mass transit.

Once I got back to my place, I changed into biking clothes and called a friend at the DMV. Aleisha had hired me to talk some sense into the woman’s violent ex-boyfriend. He got the message, and the woman continued to show her gratitude. I pocketed the address and headed for the Valley. If Tran wanted to hide where he lived, he could have used a P.O. box for his driver’s license address like I did. So either he had nothing to hide, or he believed nothing could be found. I wondered which.

An hour and a half later, I found myself on a quaint street with welcoming paths and storybook houses. Except for Tran’s. No wild roses for him; just an unremarkable ranch house and a barren rock garden.

The property next to Tran’s offered the perfect opportunity to stash my bike. Their front yard overflowed with a tangle of twisted junipers, honeysuckle shrubs, and unruly bougainvillea. Inlaid stones cut a winding path to the front door, adding several feet to the distance and giving the approach a lost-in-the-woods vibe. There was even a wooden plaque with an etched warning to “stay on the path.” They even had the requisite gnome.

I snaked my bike through the shrubs to the narrow channel that ran along the house. I barely had room to park, stretch, and guzzle a liter of water. Fifteen miles and the steep grade through Benedict Canyon made for thirsty work. Still, it felt good to work off the tension. Sensei had taught me breathing techniques to release extra energy, but I had yet to master them. Physical exertion, however, always worked; it just took longer.

I shrugged off my slim backpack and dug out a hand towel. Whoever had said men sweat and women glowed had never met me. My tank top had darkened from light gray to near-black, and my face was a sweaty mess. I carried a change of clothes in my pack, along with a brush and some tools for the trade, but I didn’t change. Women habitually wore tanks and shorts in a valley neighborhood like this. No one would notice me.

Just to be sure, and because I hadn’t seen any signs of life through the gnome house’s front windows, I decided to approach Tran’s house from the privacy of their backyard. Unfortunately, this involved traversing another maze of brambles and thorns.

Tran’s yard looked quite different. It had a pepper tree bordering the back of a kidney-shaped pool and one saguaro cactus. That was it. No brambles. No cover. I climbed the fence and landed as quietly as I could on the pebbles. No signs of life. Not even the chirp of a parakeet. I sighed with relief. I had already noted the absence of water bowls and dog feces, so I didn’t expect any barking. But if Tran didn’t have a guard dog, he would likely have a security system.

I crept behind a built-in barbecue and scoped the place through the glass doors of the main room. Ranch-style houses were shallow and long, so I had a clear shot across his living room to the front door. As expected, I saw a telltale code box on the wall. Although a friend had begun teaching me the basics of alarm-disarmament, I wasn’t ready to trust my skills. I’d have to stay outside.

From what I could see, Tran kept his home neat to the point of stark. No rugs softened the hardwood floors and not a single painting adorned the taupe walls. His living room furniture had square lines and tight cushions. None of it looked inviting or trendy; nor did it look cheap. Tran had not found these items in a discount store. The same applied to the furniture in the adjacent dining area. Everything I saw had an austere kind of elegance that defied category but implied an Asian influence.

His place wasn’t like mine, with panel screens and ornate chests. And he certainly didn’t have a dojo in the middle of his living room. Even so, the feeling persisted—J Tran’s ancestry lived in the spaces in between.

I wondered about his ethnicity. Tran was a common Vietnamese surname. However, it could have been adapted from Chen or Tan. So even if his family had come from Vietnam, they might have been Chinese. And that didn’t discount some Japanese or Korean blood added to the mix. He also had an unusual combination of wide and angular features with high cheekbones and a dark complexion that could easily have come from a Polynesian, African, Native American, or Middle Eastern ancestry.

When I looked at the empty spaces of his home, I saw place markers for the tokens and symbols of a possible heritage. Corners remained barren where most people would have put a standing lamp, a display cabinet, or an indoor tree. Walls that begged for a couch or chest had nothing. Tables that could have displayed framed photographs or a vase of flowers didn’t. This wasn’t minimalist. It was calculated. As I looked around, my imagination filled in the blanks.

The far corner of the room would have been a perfect spot for a Buddhist altar and would have explained the round cushion that sat alone on the floor. Why else would Tran have placed it there, separate from the seating area, if not for prayer or meditation? Track lights pointed at a blank wall in specific directions as if to light a collection of missing art. Tribal masks? Calligraphy scrolls? Certainly something other than a wall of taupe paint. And what about the shiny table? Who polished a table until it gleamed and didn’t use it to display something precious? I might have been projecting my own inclinations onto him, but to me, J Tran revealed more about himself by what he hid than what he showed.

Since I couldn’t break into his house without setting off the alarm and nothing more could be gained by snooping through windows, I turned my thoughts to the other reason for my visit—surveillance. I had intended to place a spy cam in a central location, but after seeing my target’s fastidious nature, I changed my mind. A man like Tran would detect the slightest deviation.

I shook away my budding admiration. While Tran had some professional qualities I could appreciate, that didn’t make him someone to admire; nor did his sex appeal make him less of a scum.

Sex appeal? What was I thinking? I definitely did not need a spy camera focused on this guy’s house. Besides, watching him in this sterile environment would drive me nuts. Much better to track where he went.

I hurried across the patio to the other side of the house and followed a narrow walkway up to the front. From there, I scaled the wall and landed behind a pair of trash cans. I rolled one of them under a small window and climbed on top to have a peek.

Since I hadn’t seen or heard anyone in the house, I didn’t expect to find a car in the garage. However, I did expect to see something: if not the motorcycle his attorney claimed he didn’t own, then at least some storage boxes, tools, or exercise equipment. All Tran’s garage had was more empty space.

I hopped off the trash can and checked the front yard for a realtor’s sign. Nope. He didn’t appear to be selling. Maybe he had just moved in and the rest of his stuff hadn’t arrived. Or maybe he had a compulsion for neatness, or an aversion to material possessions, or maybe he didn’t live here at all. Whatever the deal, I found it mighty peculiar.

I shrugged off my backpack and sat against the wall behind the cans. I had time to wait. It would give me a chance to check my messages and see if Debbie had managed to embed the celebrity tweet in her hairdressing blog.

I snorted.

If I hadn’t taken down the surveillance camera I had hidden in Kateryna’s yard, I could have done something truly important and checked on Ilya. The last time I had seen him, his sweet face was tensed like a frightened bunny with nowhere to go. While I respected Kateryna’s decision to stay with her wife-beating husband, it didn’t stop me from worrying about her son.

“Let it go, Lily. There’s nothing you can do.” I took out my phone and pretended not to look for Kateryna’s name in the missed calls and found three from my father. I hit redial. “Hey, Baba. What’s up?”

“Well, Dumpling dear, I just wanted to make sure you were coming to dinner tonight. You hadn’t replied to any of your mother’s emails. She’s concerned, dontcha know.”

I hadn’t even opened them. Dinner? No wonder she sent five. “Of course. I’m on my way.”

“Uh-huh. I figured as much, but I just wanted to check.”

“Got it covered. But thanks for calling.”

Baba chuckled. “Your mother hired a caterer for the evening.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. French cuisine. Dinner’s at seven, but she’s planning cocktails at six.”

Holy crap! I checked the time: five thirty. “Sounds great. I’ll see you soon.”

I ended the call and tapped the phone against my forehead. How could I be so stupid? I was just about to sprint to my bike when I heard the garage door opening. Tran had returned. I did the math: thirty miles from Van Nuys to Arcadia would take three hours by bike, two hours by Metro rail, or forty-five minutes by car. Even if I yanked Tran out of his BMW, stole it, and drove now, I’d be at least fifteen minutes late. Five more minutes wouldn’t make a difference.

I took out the tracker. I had made my decision.

As Tran paused in the driveway, waiting for the garage door to raise, I shouldered my backpack. No matter what happened in the next thirty seconds, I would need to run, either for my bike or for my life; I wouldn’t have time to collect any possessions.

When the car rolled forward, I fell in behind and attached the GPS tracker under the bumper behind the wheel well. If the car had moved just a little slower, I could have darted away before it stopped. Instead, I got trapped on the side of the car. If I ran, the sensor would trigger, the door would stop, and I’d get caught. If I hid until he entered the house, I’d have to open the garage door to escape, and he’d know someone had been there. Since neither option appealed, I dove above the sensor lights at the floor of the garage and rolled onto the driveway.

I half expected gunfire to riddle the metal and tear into my flesh before the garage door finally closed, but that didn’t happen. Nor did it reopen as I hauled ass to the gnome house next door. In fact, the only thing I heard was the sound of my own breathing and the crunch of brambles under my shoes.

Did I feel silly? You betcha. But just to be sure, I strapped on my helmet and ran the Merida through the junipers, jumped on the moving bike, and raced up the street.

Better to be foolish than dead.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

 

 

Ma looked like she’’d bitten into a thousand-year-old egg. Not a good sign. Her smooth almond skin was puckered from her lacquered lips to her plucked brows. Then, as if catching herself in dangerous wrinkle-promoting behavior, she relaxed, and Violet Wong became Cover Girl perfect once again. “Good of you to join us, Lily.”

“Sorry. The driver got held up in traffic.”

“Driver? You’re pushing a bicycle.”

I looked down at the Merida. After bolting out of Tran’s neighborhood, I had ordered a rideshare on Ventura Boulevard. Normally, one would have come within five minutes in such a populated area, however, I had needed a vehicle with a bike rack. The wait had slowed my departure by another ten minutes, making me fifty-five minutes late. Much as I hated to admit it, Ma had good reason to be angry.

“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Are we celebrating something special? Baba said you hired a caterer. Wait. Is this a party? Is that why you came to the door, to warn me?”

I shut my mouth before my babbling could reach epic proportions and waited for her to answer. In the meantime, I schooled my features into an expression of contrition and did my best not to slouch as Ma appraised my appearance. She didn’t do anything so overt as panning down and up my black track suit. She used peripheral vision. I knew because I had spent years emulating the action. It was harder than it seemed. Her inspection took no more than a couple of seconds, but given a choice, I would have taken another hour with the Ukrainian, especially if it would have spared me the impending argument.

Ma’s brows lifted and fell with her sigh. “We are not having a party, I just wanted to give your father a break from cooking. And I came to the door because I wanted to know why you were late. But now that I see your state of dress and that bicycle you insist on riding, your tardiness is not only clear, it is predictable. Honestly, Lily, everyone in Los Angeles owns a car. Why don’t you?”

I shook my head. The question had been asked and answered more times than I could remember. “If I had it, I’d use it. And since I don’t need it, I don’t want it.” I held up a hand to forestall an argument. “Besides, most of the time, I can get a rideshare faster than I can get to a parked car. And traffic is the same no matter who’s driving.”

Her sigh could have blown out a candle. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

I opened my eyes wide but said nothing. Since when was my presence all that mattered? I thought about asking then changed my mind when I saw Baba amble out the door.

“There’s my Dumpling. I told you she’d make it.”

I managed to squeak out a hello before he squeezed me into a hug.

“You feel hot. Do you have a fever?”

“Uh, no.” I looked around as if he should be able to see the heat radiating from the driveway. “It’s ninety degrees.”

Ma tilted her head. “You might have felt more comfortable in a dress.” There was something odd about the way she delivered this bit of criticism, as though she was disappointed yet trying to avoid a quarrel. Something was going on. That’s when I noticed how nice they both looked.

Ma always dressed impeccably, but today she looked even more elegant than usual. She had on a sleeveless cheongsam-style cocktail dress that fit snuggly enough to show curves and a flat tummy while still looking classy. Instead of having slits up the sides, the stunning purple dress fell just below the knee where it drew attention to graceful calves, tiny ankles, and heeled pumps of the same rich color. Her silky black hair had been bound into an artful chignon and secured with a purple and green cloisonné fan. The green of her hairpin matched her dark imperial jade earrings, cut in marquis cabochons with platinum and diamond accents, just like her wedding ring. The only other jewelry she wore was a jade bracelet divided into rounded segments and connected by platinum links. Of all her jewelry, the Sì Xiàng bracelet was the dearest.

My grandfather had given it to her before she came to the United States to attend college. He wanted her to remember her heritage and to feel that she would always have the Sì Xiàng—mythical creatures from the four celestial divisions—to watch over her when he could not. Each jade segment had been carved to resemble one of the four guardians: Azure Dragon of the East, Vermilion Bird of the South, White Tiger of the West, and Black Tortoise of the North. Together, they represented the Sì Xiàng. While each of the mythical creatures had its own color, all of Ma’s had been carved from the same dark green imperial jade.

No matter how annoyed I got with my mother, I could never deny that Violet Wong was a stunning woman.

“You look beautiful, Ma.”

“Oh?” she faltered, surprised by the compliment, then ran her manicured hands along her hair and hip as though some rebellious element might have miraculously sprung out of place.

“Everything’s perfect. Really. You too, Baba.”

If my mother resembled an exquisite doll, my father looked like a bear. And not the chubby teddy kind. Vern Knudsen was a blond grizzly.

He stood at a respectable six feet, with broad shoulders, sturdy limbs, and powerful hands. When Rose and I were little, he used to balance my baby sister on one meaty paw while doing bicep curls with me dangling from the other. He had turned fifty in May, as Ma would in August, but the silken strands of his vanilla-blond hair had already begun to silver. He had a proud nose and kept his wide face smoothly shaven. His thin lips were quick to smile. His teeth were large and straight. And his eyes were the color of cornflowers on a bright summer’s day. So maybe he was more of a Disney grizzly. Either way, he was my Baba, and I loved him.

I took in the ivory Hawaiian shirt and tan slacks. “Why’s everyone so dressed up?”

Ma made an exasperated sound. “I knew it. She didn’t read any of my emails.”

“She could have brought it with,” he said, leaving off the “her” as was his Midwest custom. Then he turned to me. “Got a change of clothes in that bag of yours?”

The only items in my pack were the spy cam I didn’t use, the brush I used before I buzzed the gate’s intercom, and the empty space where my pants and jacket had been. The only reason I was suffering to wear them over my tank and shorts in this heat was to cover the bruises and scratches on my thighs and arms.

Ma gave my pack a disapproving look. “I doubt she could fit a decent pair of shoes in that thing, let alone an outfit.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Vi. The dresses young women wear today seem pretty tiny to me.”

“Anything would seem tiny to you. Trust me, Vern, an outfit worth wearing would take more room than that.”

I rolled my bike toward the left-hand garage—there was another on the right—and leaned it against the side wall in the shade. The wrought iron gate had closed behind me, so I wasn’t concerned about theft. Mostly I wanted to avoid standing in the heat while my parents talked about me like I wasn’t close enough to hear. When I returned, I grabbed them by the arms and steered them off the stone paving and onto the cool white marble tiles of the entry hall.

“Sorry I’m underdressed, Ma. But right now, I could really use some air conditioning.”

Ma kept the house, a wedding present to her from my grandfather, at a chilly seventy-two degrees, regardless of the season or time of day. I used to beg for heat in the winter, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “California is so hot,” she would say—even if it wasn’t. Today, I had to agree. “Do you have any iced tea?”

Ma patted her chignon for the second time and offered me a polite smile. “I’ll see. No promises.”

The heels of her pumps clicked as she strode across the marble, past her home office on the left and the formal parlor on the right, and in front of the Gone with the Wind staircase that swept up to the second-floor balconies and bedrooms. While growing up with Rose, the mansion had felt like home. Without her, it felt cold.

When Ma was out of hearing, Baba touched my chin with his giant thumb and turned it to the side. “What happened to your cheek?”

“Huh?”

“Your cheek. There’s glue on it.”

I had forgotten about that cut. I had replaced Stan’s butterfly bandage with tissue adhesive after getting home from Kateryna’s. A slim red line could still be seen. “I caught it with a fingernail. The glue’s a liquid bandage. You know, so it wouldn’t alarm Ma.” I gave him a conspiratorial wink and hoped he would drop it. He didn’t.

“Last I checked, you kept your nails trimmed shorter than mine.”

I shrugged. “Hangnail. Doesn’t take much.” I took a few steps. “You coming?”

“Uh-huh.”

I ignored the skepticism in his tone and kept walking. “Good. Because I’m thirsty.”

He’d follow or he wouldn’t. At this point, I wasn’t sure which I preferred. While Ma scrutinized me with a critical eye, Baba observed everything without judgment. As a result, he tended to see things most people missed. I didn’t think he suspected what I did when I wasn’t helping in the restaurant or assisting his neighborhood friends with their oh-so-urgent internet needs, but I couldn’t be certain: Midwesterners held their cards pretty dang close to the vest.

When I reached the kitchen, Ma handed me a glass of iced tea and motioned me toward the dining room. “Dinner is about to be served.”

I looked back, hoping for a glimpse at what was simmering on the stove. “Oh my gosh, is that Coquilles Saint-Jacques? It smells heavenly. But don’t tell Baba I said that.”

“I heard you,” he called from the dining room.

“I was just being polite,” I called back, shaking my head at Ma so she would know I didn’t mean it. Then I whispered to the chef, “It smells delicious.” He nodded his appreciation and went back to stirring the sauce.

Ma smiled and patted me on the back. I had praised her caterer. All was forgiven.

“Why are the best cooks men?” I asked.

“Because they’re the ones who like to eat.”

“Ha! Speak for yourself. I love to eat.”

A corner of her mouth curled as she launched into one of our infamous, silent exchanges.

“I know you do, dear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with food, Ma.”

“I never said there was.”

“And I exercise plenty.”

“You exercise too much.”

“What are you saying?”

“Who says I’m saying anything?”

“I am.”

“Then you’ll choose my meaning for me, won’t you, Lily?”

Even the conversations we didn’t speak exhausted me.

She inclined her head toward the dining room. “Shall we?”

Was it my imagination, or did she look smug? I couldn’t be sure. While Ma and I had a secret language that thrived in silence, it didn’t mean I always understood her thoughts. She had a door in her mind that she either opened or shut. Sometimes it swung back and forth so quickly the communication broke into disjointed bits I found hard to follow. I tried to explain it to Baba once. He called it a mother-daughter thing and told me to enjoy it.

Right.

Weren’t mothers and daughters supposed to go shopping or gossip about past and future boyfriends? That’s how it worked on television. Not that I wanted those types of interactions. Shopping with Ma made me feel like a short-legged, chubby street walker. And the one time I tried to tell her about my college boyfriend, a brown-eyed California boy, she spent the next hour flipping through Hong Kong magazines, pointing out all the good-looking Chinese movie stars. As if Andy Lau or Huang Xiaoming were going to leave their spouses and marry me. And who was she to judge? She ran off with a Norwegian from North Dakota.

I inhaled a calming breath and thought of Rose. It had been different with her. Ma and Rose gelled in a way Ma and I never did. She was always easier on Rose. Tight jeans became chic, short dresses stylish, and high school dating acceptable. The world turned upside down, and no one but me seemed to notice. Was it any wonder I didn’t enjoy the mother-daughter thing?

Ma interrupted my thoughts. “What are you looking at, Lily?”

“Huh?” I had stopped in front of a family photo hanging on the wall. It showed all of us together a few months after Rose had been born. “She was such a chubby baby.”

“Ha! Rose was fat.”

I laughed. “Cute though.”

Ma stroked my arm. Even through the fabric, I could feel the gentleness of her touch, as if she wanted to say more. I could have pried, but she wouldn’t have appreciated it. Rose’s murder had affected each of us in markedly different ways: Ma focused her frightening tiger mom energy onto all things Chinese, Baba poured his broken heart into me and the restaurant, and I became a protector of women and kept it from both of them. Who was I to pry into her motives? Instead, I gave her an out. “I can hear Baba’s stomach growling from here.”

She smiled, this time with both corners of her mouth. “Then we better hurry.”

By the time we rounded the corner, I was feeling pretty good about the evening. My parents had forgiven my tardiness and casual attire, and Ma and I had shared a couple of truly genuine moments.

And then I saw him.

“Why is Daniel Kwok sitting at our dining table?”

I had clenched my teeth into a fixed smile, like an old school ventriloquist. Ma did the same.

“Because he is our guest. Now go say hello.”