Boston—twenty minutes later
Borya fought back tears as she raced the last block to the house. She was angry with her father, and angry with herself. Why had he come back early? Didn’t he trust her?
Why had she insisted on going out one more time? Where was the sense in that?
What was she going to tell him? He had the card. Of course, accessing the account wouldn’t tell him anything, certainly not what she was up to.
There was thirty-seven dollars and change in the account. He’d ask where she got it.
That wouldn’t be the only question he’d ask. Or the hardest.
How did you set this account up? You’re not eighteen.
A friend.
Which friend?
James.
James who?
God, she would never be able to bluff her way through. The account had been set up entirely online.
She could tell him that. Just leave out the details.
I set the account up myself online.
Why?
Why . . . why? Because . . . I wanted to see if I could do it.
Dumb answer. That was practically admitting that she had hacked in.
But she didn’t hack in, and she had set up the account online. And lied in doing so, of course, but still, the original setup was legit.
What followed wasn’t. Everything that followed.
Should she tell him everything?
Oh, God, no. He’ll have a conniption.
Conniption. One of her teachers used that word. It was a good word. It fit.
Borya let her bike drop on the back walkway and ran up the stairs. She’d beaten her father home. Maybe she could pretend she was sleeping.