“Your definition of ‘win’ differs from that of every Asian elder out there,” I say. “And it was already disrupted because of me, so I was trying to avoid—ugh, you know what, never mind. Tell me what you got from Grace.”
He raises an eyebrow and gets that annoying amused look.
“You seem mad,” he says.
“I always seem that way,” I retort.
“I’m just wondering why you’re mad . . . at me?”
“I . . .” I draw in a deep breath, some of my aggravation dissipating. I’m not mad at him, I guess, I’m mad at . . . everything else? When my anger overtakes me that way, all the things I’m mad about get piled together in one big lumpy mess and there’s nowhere to put it. It just sits in my chest, eager to lash out at the first thing that comes its way. “Um, no. I’m not mad at you. I just . . .” I pause, trying to clear my brain. “Some stuff happened before you got here, and I . . . I’m sorry. I appreciate you helping me.”
He looks like maybe he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. Instead he just nods, pulls his phone from his pocket, taps the screen, and hands it to me.
Displayed is a single photo that looks like a very pretty pattern. The close-up of some kind of mosaic, perhaps? Bright splashes of green and yellow and blue that appear to be etched onto tiles. Is it a floor? Or . . . something else with tiles?
“What is it?” I murmur, almost to myself, turning the phone around—as if the image will make more sense upside down.
“I asked around last night, but no one in the Asian Hollywood group text seemed to have any idea where Grace is,” Henry says. “So I decided to go straight to the source. I was thinking about what you were saying about making sure she wasn’t kidnapped or something. How I should be a good friend. Grace has been helping me with something—”
“What something?” I say, my “this person is using vague language to hide their nefarious intentions” antennae going up.
“Just something,” he says, a resistant and obstinate thread creeping into his easygoing voice. “Anyway, I sent her a message directly, outside of the group text. Asked her to send me proof of life—please. She sent back that photo.”
“Did she say anything else?” I scroll down on the text thread, but it’s just Henry gently asking Grace a few more questions regarding her whereabouts. She never responded.
“I’m trying not to scare her off,” he says, gesturing to the screen. “But maybe I can keep getting her to send me those photos? Use my natural charm.” He grins at me.
I scrutinize the photo harder, bringing the phone closer to my face.
I don’t know what it is about Henry Chen that makes me want to immediately dispute what he just told me: that Grace sent him this photo after going off the grid so fully that the general public still has no idea where she is. Maybe it’s that thoroughly irritating smugness he has going on. Or maybe it’s the fact that this whole situation is just so bizarre, so unbelievable, that every step feels like it’s infused with a strange sort of magic. Everything I learn, everything that leads me closer to my long-lost mother, feels so momentous.
And this photo is so ordinary. So mundane.
It feels like something I was looking at the other day wandering through LA, like something I can remember glancing up and seeing—
Then it hits me.
That’s exactly what it is.
I search back through my memory. And I realize this image probably feels so mundane because I’ve seen it before.
“This is an extreme close-up of one of the tile art pieces at the LA Central Library,” I say, tapping the screen, a spark of excitement igniting in my chest. “Have you been there? It’s one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen—”
“Probably because you’ve never been to New York,” he says, his amused grin turning teasing.
Maybe that’s supposed to make me laugh, but I find myself glaring at him anew. “Oh god. Are you one of those ‘New York is the best city ever, and glitzy, fake-ass LA cannot ever hope to compare’ snobs?”
He gives a loose shrug that tells me everything I need to know. “Is the Citizens Patrol of Little Tokyo about to tell me I’m wrong?”
“The Citizens Patrol was about to feed you local tacos as absolutely irrefutable proof that LA is superior,” I say. “But with that attitude, you don’t deserve tacos, so let’s keep to the task at hand. If this is Grace’s proof-of-life photo, that means she was at the library—when did you get this?”
“This morning,” he says. “I sped over here to show you.”
“When you could have just texted me and not interrupted the mochi demonstration,” I say. “Yes, that makes sense.”
“If I’d texted you, we wouldn’t have been able to immediately go to our next obvious investigative step,” Henry says. “Which is—”
“Go to the library,” I say, completing his thought. “Maybe she’s still there. Or will be there again. Or maybe somebody saw her and will be able to tell us something. Or . . . or . . .”
I can’t even vocalize my next thought. Which is that maybe standing in the same place Grace was standing, picking up on whatever spirit or energy she left in the air, will help me figure out where she’s going next. My gaze wanders up the twisting branches of the tree, and I imagine them morphing into the twisting hair of an onryo.
“So?” Henry says. He gestures to the garden’s exit. “I’m parked in the Aiso Street garage. We could take my car?”
“It’s not that far—we can walk. Or are you one of those New Yorkers who thinks LA people don’t walk anywhere?” I give him a scathing look.
He grins. “You said it.”
“But you thought it.”
He just laughs. “Berate me if you must, Citizens Patrol—last I
