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I take a sip of the tea. It’s a jasmine, so hot it nearly scalds my throat.
“So,” Barron says. “We’ve got a new mark we’re looking at. Someone big. We could use a hand. And you could use the money. Besides, we’re family.”
“Family looks out for family,” says Mom, a line I’ve heard her recite more times than I can count.
It’s tempting to say yes, even after everything. I used to long to be asked to grift alongside my brother. To prove that even though I wasn’t a worker, I could con along with the best of them. And my brother and mother are up there with the best of them.
But now I know I’m a worker and a con artist and maybe a murderer, too. And if there is one thing I want to prove to myself, it’s that I can be different.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say.
Barron shrugs philosophically.
Mom reaches for her teacup, and I see the flash of a fat blue topaz circled in diamonds sitting on her first finger, over her leather glove. The ring’s new. I shudder to think where it came from. Then I spot the ring on the other hand. The stone is reddish, like a single droplet of blood spilled into water.
“Mom,” I say hesitantly.
Something in my expression makes her look down at her hands.
“Oh,” she gushes, clearly pleased. “I met the most fantastic man! He’s absolutely perfect.” She waggles the finger wearing the topaz. “And such good taste.”
“He’s the one I was telling you about,” Barron says. At my blank look he lowers his voice and raises his eyebrows. “The mark.”
“Oh,” I say. “But what about that other ring?”
“This old thing?” Mom says, holding out her other hand. The pale red diamond flashes in the fluorescent restaurant lights. “Also a gift. One I haven’t worn in years.”
I think of the pictures I found when I was cleaning out the house. Photos of Mom in vintage lingerie, posing for a person I couldn’t see. Someone with an expensive wedding ring. Someone who wasn’t my dad. I wonder if the man from the photograph had something to do with the diamond.
“Who gave that to you?” I ask.
She gives me a look across the table like she’s daring me to contradict her. “Your father, sweetheart. He had the best taste of any man.”
“Well, I don’t think you should wear it in public. That’s all.” I smile to let her know I’m not fooled. It feels like we’re alone in the restaurant. “Someone might steal it.”
That makes her laugh. Barron looks at us both like we’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand. For a change, I am the person with the insider information.
The food comes. I mix plenty of wasabi into my soy sauce and drag a piece of sashimi through it. The fish is salty on my tongue, and the green horseradish flares all the way up my nose.
“I’m glad you came to lunch,” Barron says, leaning in to me. “You seemed a little freaked-out back at school.”
I don’t mention that by the time they picked me up it was way past time for lunch. We’re surrounded by an early dinner crowd.
“What you’re feeling is part of the grieving process,” he goes on, with the total sincerity that makes him so convincing. “There’s no making sense out of what happened to Philip, so you’re trying to make sense out of something else instead.”
“Maybe that’s it,” I say.
He ruffles my hair with a gloved hand. “Sure it is. You’ll see.”
Jin-Sook brings our check in a narrow black folder. Mom pays for it with one of a dozen stolen credit cards.
Unfortunately for her, the credit card is declined. The waitress brings it back with apologies.
“Your machine must be broken,” my mother says, her voice rising.
“It’s fine,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “I’ve got it.”
Barron turns to our waitress. “Thanks for such great service.” His bare hand is on her wrist.
