Page 162 of Bad Attitude
I make myself a coffee and retreat to the sofa in the living space. The little black box Kurt gave me is in the back pocket of my leather pants, never away from me, just as he requested. A constant reminder of the question that circles around and around inside my head: what is it?
Pulling it out, I examine it with fresh eyes. It’s slim, rectangular, with a button on the side and a little L in a box in one corner. Clearly a storage device, but that doesn’t help. Could be anything on it. Blackmail material, birthday plans, last year’s tax returns.
Out of curiosity, I press the button. It prompts for a PIN I obviously don’t have. Locked, then.
I’m still staring at it minutes later when my mother walks in, and cover it with one hand.
“Morning.”
“Good morning, Genesis. Did you sleep well?”
Said with all the warmth and sincerity of a hotel maid.
“Fine, thank you.” I pause, bracing myself to ask the woman who birthed me for a second favor. “Could I please borrow your phone? I’ve lost mine, and I’d like to google something.”
My mother looks surprised that I’ve asked, but unlocks her phone and hands it over, face expressionless.
“Thank you.”
“Be careful with it please.”
Yes, because I was about to drop it and run it over with my bike. “Sure.”
I snap a photo of the device I’m holding and run a reverse image search, and the answer comes up in seconds. It’s a cryptocurrency wallet, carrying keys for untraceable, liquid cash. I stare at it. Kurt gave up his share of the job and risked all of our lives for this. There could be a dollar stored on here, or hundreds of millions. What I do know is that it’s worth more than the diamonds.
“Whatever you do, please don’t let it out of your sight.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, distracted as I delete the photo then hand her back her phone.
“Of course.” She tilts her head. “Any plans for today?”
Hide here. Pretend I’m not holding something the Chinese want, Kurt wants, his contractor wants, and people have already tried to kill for.
“Not really.”
“Want to help me tin some fruit?”
Not really.“Sure.”
My mother blinks in surprise, and I can’t tell whether it’s because she asked me, or because I agreed.
But we spend the morning peeling, deseeding, cutting, simmering in syrup and filling sterilized jars. The smell is familiar, hot sugar and cooked fruit filling the house. It’s dull, repetitive work, but it keeps my hands busy, if not my brain. For that, I talk to my mother, pretending an active interest in theRelief Society work she does. All it takes for our first ever mother-daughter bonding session is the utter desperation of hiding from everything and everyone else I know.
“Thank you,” she says when we’re done clearing up, unstrapping her apron and hanging it on the back of the cupboard door. I pass her the one she lent me, and she hangs that up too, eyes roving over the tattoos I’m showing in just my strappy top. “I thought of getting a tattoo once.”
I stare at her, not sure I heard right. “Pardon?”
She flaps a hand at me. “We all have our moments of rebellion, don’t we?”
Oh, so that’s what my tattoos are.
“But you didn’t?”
“No,” she says, almost wistful, glances at my tattoos again then gives herself a little shake. “I don’t approve of them,” she says, lips pressed thin.
Of course she doesn’t.
“I’m going to go and find Dad.”
