Like they’re made of rubber, my legs give way, and Caitlin grabs me by my arms and steadies me.
“Jessie defused it,” Caitlin tells Hala. “We’re fine.”
I lean over, still panting from stress. Behind me, I’m aware of Caitlin taking photo after photo of the weapons and the big crates of clothing, which seem to be shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with slogans. Going over to help, I move the top layers of guns so she can photograph the ones beneath. But now Hala comes in again.
“He ran and took the ray gun thing with him, but I got pictures of it,” she says. There’s a brief pause and when she speaks again, her voice holds urgency. “He must have called someone. There are two cars coming this way,” she says. “They don’t look friendly.”
My legs are still shaky, but I push myself to stagger out, Caitlin propelling me with a strong hand on my back. Hala meets us at the door. I don’t need to look for the approaching cars—the distant squeal of their tires makes it clear that they are bearing down on us. We edge through the gap in the wire, one by one, then run like mad for the bikes. Hala fires hers on first, jamming on her helmet to cover her face from the arriving crew. Caitlin and I do the same.
“Hold on,” Caitlin tells me as her bike roars to life. Skidding away from the vehicles which are just now screeching to a stop on the road, we all burst into the alleyway that runs behind the warehouse and emerge behind the cars, roaring past them and back onto the highway, before the men inside can do anything more than pull out guns and watch us go.
10
IT TAKES A LONG TIME for sleep to come, and when it finally does, my dreams are all about me trying to reach Kit’s school in time and yet never being able to get there. I guess it doesn’t matter how many miles I can run when I’m awake, or how resourceful Athena teaches me to be, there’s always some deep-seated insecurity that can haunt me when I’m unconscious.
Even though my eyes are burning with tiredness, I’m relieved to wake up just before 7 a.m. I check my phone. As I scroll through today’s weather and news reports for Mumbai, a message pings in from Riya.
Meet me 8:30 a.m. Juhu police station. Pls confirm
Over the time we’ve known each other, Peggy has often diplomatically suggested ways for me to work on my people skills. Sometimes, I’m fine with new contacts, but other times it’s not clear to me how to reach out or form a bond. Certainly, I’ve already experienced some rocky opening exchanges with Riya. One of Peggy’s gems of advice is that offering someone a meal can often be a good way to break the ice. Keeping this in mind, I tap out a reply that’s more friendly than Riya’s curt text deserves:
Good morning, Detective. Can I buy you breakfast?
Congratulating myself on implementing this piece of etiquette, I go and brush my teeth while I wait for Riya’s reply. It’s taking some time, so I reckon she’s clearly tempted by my kind offer. That is, until my phone pings with her response:
No
Really? Would it kill her to just be polite? I spit the toothpaste into the basin, annoyed. Then I take a breath. One of my many life lessons from the past couple of months is that it’s better not to get upset by something beyond your control. I remember this excellent tip about 10 percent of the time, which is 9 percent more than I used to. That’s significant progress, if you ask me. I don’t bother responding to Riya any further though. Let her wonder if I’ll show up or not. Instead, I take my time in the shower, get dressed in jeans, a shirt, and a jacket, then walk down the hotel corridor to Kit’s room.
I knock quietly, in case Kit’s still sleeping, but my mother is up and sitting with Peggy already. Both of them sip at cups of tea with delicate lemon slices floating in them. Kit’s in skinny jeans and a flowing paisley shirt, which is the kind of thing that would make me look like a tablecloth if I tried it. Peggy looks just perfect in a khaki ensemble—like a fashion ad for casual chic in a warm climate. They both seem subdued, so I just come out, as gently as I can, with the question that’s been on my mind:
“When are the funerals for the girls?”
“Probably day after tomorrow,” Peggy says. “Often, Hindus hold funerals within twenty-four hours, but these have been delayed. Forensics and . . . things.”
Jittery, Kit gets up and pads over to the desk, scooping something up in her hand. Returning to where I sit, she takes hold of my fingers, slipping a small bracelet of darkly polished, gleaming wooden beads onto my wrist. They are intricately carved with tiny symbols.
“I got these at a place around the corner,” she says. “They’re supposed to ward off bad spirits.”
Peggy reaches for my hand to take a closer look.
“It’s beautiful, Kit,” she says.
“I have two more, for Caitlin and Hala,” my mother adds. I can just imagine Hala’s face when she gets this and is told nothing bad will happen to her ever again.
“Do they work against terrorists?” I ask. I’m trying to be funny, or at least flippant, but Kit frowns.
“I know you don’t go in for this kind of thing, but energy fields exist. You studied physics, Jess, you should know that better than any of us,” she says.
I’m totally ready to challenge that mash-up of new age wishful thinking and the laws of physics, but a stern glance from Peggy helps me to keep it in my head. Instead, I mutter a “thank you” to Kit, glancing sideways at her. Her shirt is open at the neck, displaying
