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Who keeps printed pictures anymore?
But my curiosity spikes up as I study the first one.
It’s a family picture by the sea, all smiles, beachwear, and azure water in the background. One of the kids must be Archer. There is a faint trace of his features in a boy who looks a decade younger, and another boy, even younger, next to him—his brother who died in a crash. They must have been that age when it happened.
The woman hugging them is pretty and happy. So is the man—Secretary Crone, I recognize the face from the file.
So this is what he lost. Except for his father, who’s been embroiled in more personal scandals than Hugh Hefner and still gets to keep his political position.
Another picture of Archer and the younger kid.
Another one, both of them on scooters.
Another one from a party with a bunch of guys. I recognize Ty and another guy from the Eastside.
Well, well, a little nostalgic, aren’t we?
And then there is Kai Droga, staring at me from a picture, eyes wide open in shock, food smudged on his chin as Archer in the background is laughing hysterically. There are one-story buildings in the background. Signs in Spanish.
There is nothing peculiar about the picture per se—just two friends. Except I saw Archer’s file and his pictures from Deene—sports cars, designer clothes, Barbies hanging on his arms, yachts, and VIP rooms.
This one is different. Kai and Archer look like two hippies who are on a road trip. And I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Archer smile coldly and suggestively but never laugh unless it was evil. Not like this—genuinely, with his mouth open.
That picture is like a parallel reality of what Archer could be if he were a decent human being. It makes me feel uneasy.
Another picture snapped by someone else from a distance—girls standing around the two sports bikes about to take off. No helmets. An unmistakable pair—Kai and Archer.
Then another—a shabby table by a cantina—yep, Mexico—and Crone with his face down in his arms on the table like he is passed out drunk, the happy face cheering with Corona next to him—yep, Kai.
Kai’s pictures are in Archer’s family drawer. I might have underestimated the drama here. I hope they don’t kill each other if they get another chance. In fact, I hope they don’t see each other ever again.
I put the pictures back. I am prying. That’s how you learn about a person—looking behind closed door at things they don’t let anyone see.
Archer is a closed door, period. But behind it—I was right when I asked Uncle—trauma. Fucked-up family. Broken trust. Brotherhood screwed up first by a girl then by a freak accident.
That syringe starts making a little bit of sense—as much as any painkiller will. If Archer didn’t have Zion, he would’ve offed himself already.
I glance at him on the floor.
Another five minutes or so.
I take a seat on the couch, put my feet up, crossing them at the ankles on the coffee table, and wait.
29
KAI
Katura was right.There are three ATVs behind Archer’s crib. The girl knows everything.
I know there are cameras. I know there is security. But there is no other option. Callie and I hop on one of them, and we zoom out of the resort toward the main road to town.
It’s dark, and the headlights illuminate the way barely enough to see thirty feet ahead. I am not speeding. Being reckless is the last mistake I want to make.
My heart slams in my chest when I approach a security checkpoint and slow. The security gates are brightly lit up but empty of travelers. It’s around midnight. Two guards are slumped in their chairs, guns on their lap, and they assess us with a lazy nod—they don’t worry about people leaving the resort, only checking the ones coming in. I’m sure a couple on an ATV is a common thing when the Westsiders go to town for entertainment.
My heart eases when we drive away without hassle.
Surprisingly, there is no chase. Maybe Katura conjured some stuff. That girl is something. I pray Crone doesn’t kill her when he wakes up. Except, she is quite capable of incapacitating just about anyone.
