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“Got it.”
This is tedious work, but I got it. And I like that we sound like we are a team.
“As to Milena Tsariuk… I know you don’t have access to the spring-breakers’ files. We have some of them here. We did that before you left. The truth is, Milena Tsariuk might be dead.”
“You mean…”
For the first time, the possibility that Milena might’ve been one of the girls who died on Zion occurs to me, plunging my stomach low. What if that was Olivia? I can surely ask for the files of the deceased.
“Yes. She might not be on the island, or she died on the mainland. There are thousands still missing, and that might be the reason Tsariuk can’t find her. But he’ll never stop. And for Mr. Crone’s sake, and since you are there, you should still do the job thoroughly. Since he hired you and all.”
“It’s Archer.”
“It’s Mr. Crone, since he is an employer. Our conversations might be getting friendlier, but he is an employer.”
I frown. “What do you meanconversations? How many did you have?”
Dad doesn’t answer, only cocks his head.
“Dad?”
“A few.”
“About what?” I say a little too impatiently, angry that Archer talks to my dad behind my back.
I snort right away to hide my annoyance and roll my eyes.
“Kit-Kat?” Dad’s gaze is too prying now. He puckers his lips to the side like he does when he is disappointed. “Don’t mess around. That’s not what you are there for. Do your job and come back.”
I haven’t told him anything about Archer. Did Archer? The bastard knows how to throw bait.
I smooth a strand of my hair over one shoulder, irritated at the last bit of lecture. “I know.”
Even more irritated, I get back to the files and do what Dad told me to.
I skip lunch, deep in the private contractors’ info, Blackwater, death squads, dishonorable discharges, which I mark with red to make sure to send them to my dad. Hospital records—another one, since the guards hired for Zion are not supposed to have any medical conditions. That’s a clause in the agreement.
I decide to read one more file for the day.
Jacob O’Shea. British. Thirty-seven. 5’6. Five years in the British Military Academy. A two-year gap in employment—red flag, so I mark it. UAE private military group—interesting. Then a private British investigation agency.
Blah-blah-blah.
I check with a red marker the sketchy parts and go to family history.
Wife and a child, deceased.
I sigh sympathetically. It’s only when you read the files do you realize how many of those contractors lost their families during the nuclear attacks. Just like everyone else. It’s common. Tragedy is the new black, even two years after the Change, with spikes in medical conditions, cancer, and suicide.
But that’s not what catches my attention.
O’Shea has another child, and the name makes my heart skip a beat.
Igor Portnoy, age fourteen.
There is nothing else about him, no address or citizenship.
I open the laptop.
