“Well, thank goodness she did,” Officer Gray says, “because otherwise, we wouldn’t have known about it. And now thanks to you three, it seems like all the evidence has been swept up and . . .”
“Thrown into the recycling bin,” Oliver says helpfully. “The bins are right outside. I can show them to you if you want.”
Officer Gray takes a breath through her teeth. “I’ll let the team know.” She looks around the shop and closes her eyes for a moment. “Did any of you see anything suspicious?”
“Aside from the whole shop being smashed up?” Sana feels like she’s being disrespectful somehow, but she swears she’s not trying to be. She’s honestly, sincerely—okay, maybe not sincerely—trying to be as truthful as she can. But she can’t deny that everything about this does seem a bit shady, and that’s when it hits her that it’s not just her acting shady. Oliver and Riki are obfuscating too, and why? She’s already guessed, deep down, that Riki is very much not a Buzzfeed reporter, or any reporter, really. But what about Oliver? What’s he hiding?
She can only watch quietly as Officer Gray walks around, inspecting the teahouse and grumbling to herself about having to call “the team” in and how much she hates “those nerds.” Finally, Officer Gray tells them to not touch anything else in the teahouse, then she’s off, leaving behind her a vacuum. Sana, Riki, and Oliver stand there, not quite knowing what to say. The air between them is thick with suspicion. Sana takes out her phone, coming up with an excuse to leave, when she sees that there’s a text from Vera. It says:
Meet me now. I know truth between you and M!!!
* * *
• • •
By the time Sana gets to the meeting place Vera suggested, down one of the less popular piers at the wharf, she is so out of breath she thinks she might die. Or maybe she might die because she’s panicking, not because she’s out of shape? Either way, it’s not a great feeling. The old woman is already there, probably having chosen the most ideal position to look more mysterious and wise. A few paces away, Emma is drawing on the pavement with colored chalk.
“Vera—” Then her breath hitches, and to Sana’s horror, she finds herself bursting into tears. Oh no, no, this isn’t supposed to happen. The whole tram ride here, Sana has gone over what she will say to Vera. First of all, she will obviously tell Vera that she’s mistaken. Then Sana will take a page from all the gaslighting assholes she’s known in her life and insist that Vera imagined everything. Hey, if there’s ever a silver lining to dating college frat boys, it’s learning how to gaslight with the best of them. But then she sees Vera’s slight frame against the vast ocean, and the way Vera’s Asian perm blows in the sea breeze, and something about it cracks her apart. She can’t lie to Vera, not like this. Not ever.
As Sana weeps, hands envelope her. Vera hugs her tight. “Aiya, why you cry?” Vera mutters, patting Sana’s back. “So dramatic, you young people.”
“But you—your message—” She’s gasping too hard to form a coherent sentence.
Vera pulls away so she can look Sana in the eye. “Just tell me, you kill Marshall? Is it you? You give him pigeon?”
“What—no!” Sana cries. Thank god the pier is deserted at this hour, because that came out a lot louder than she intended. But even if there were people about, she wouldn’t care anyway, because it is imperative that she make Vera understand this. “No,” she says again, in a stronger, more level voice. “I did not kill Marshall. I wished him dead, so many times, but no.”
Eons pass as Vera regards Sana silently, her sharp eyes cutting through Sana’s skin and flesh and bone, straight into the depths of her heart. Then Vera sniffs. “Okay. I believe you. For now.”
Sana sags with relief. Emma toddles over to them and Vera hugs her before taking out a bottle of warm milk from her bag. Emma accepts the offering with a solemn nod and goes back to drawing on the pavement.
Vera turns her attention back to Sana. “But now tell me, why Marshall has a folder with your name as title?”
Immediately, Sana’s entire body is abuzz with electricity. “A folder? What folder? Where did you find it?”
“In Marshall’s laptop, of course.”
“How did you have access to— You know what? Never mind. What’s inside?”
Vera raises her eyebrows. “You tell me.”
“Was it—” Sana swallows thickly. The hope is too much, turning and turning inside her, surely it will kill her. Her voice comes out thick with it. “My paintings?”
Vera nods. “They are quite good. Maybe not amazing, but not bad.”
A part of Sana wants to laugh because this is such an Asian mom way of giving a compliment—never give too big of a compliment, always remind the child that there is room for improvement. But most of Sana is awash with relief, a plethora of it. Maybe now that she can get her art back, she’ll finally be able to get over her block. But the thought of the block is still very real. The part of her that Marshall damaged isn’t going to be repaired magically.
“Come, you sit down.”
Sana lets Vera lead her to a bench. Vera reaches into her bag and pulls out a thermos and two cups. She pours steaming-hot tea into one and hands it to Sana. Sana wraps her hands around the cup, warming her fingers. The tea’s fragrance envelopes her as she raises it to her lips, as comforting as a warm blanket. It tastes faintly sweet and seems mild at first sip, but its fragrance lingers in her mouth long after.
“Chrysanthemum with dates,” Vera says. “I don’t think you need caffeine.”
“Oh Vera.” Sana half laughs, half sobs.
“Now you tell me what happen.”
And she does, going way back, because somehow, Sana knows that Vera is here to listen to everything, not just the thing that happened with Marshall, but everything. And she wants to tell someone. She’s been hungry for it ever since she was a kid.
“When my mom was growing up, my grandparents—they’re your stereotypical Asian parents—”
Vera’s eyes narrow, and Sana hurries to add, “Which isn’t necessarily bad. But it really didn’t do any good for my mom. They pushed her hard to study engineering. She hated it; she wasn’t very good at math or science, and she was always disappointing them. Anyway, she dropped out of college, and they basically disowned her. She was homeless for a while, sleeping on friends’ couches, but that whole time, she was writing a book. And when she finished, the book found an agent, and then a publisher. It didn’t sell for much, but my mom wrote another book, and another, and now she basically has an empire built on books, and my grandparents couldn’t be prouder.”