“Bobby,” Rainie says, with the air of an adult speaking to a very naive child. “Top government spies don’t need to build their own illegal school app to get rich quick. That’s what bribery is for.”

“Who d’you reckon it is, then?” Bobby challenges.

“I don’t know,” Rainie says, grabbing the whiskey bottle from Vanessa and gulping down the rest of the brown liquid in one go. Then she wipes her mouth roughly with the back of her sleeve. “But whoever it is—they’re a hero.”

Hero.

Another compliment, and from Rainie Lam, out of all people, but the word only chafes my conscience. I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

“I’m going to do it,” Vanessa says abruptly, pushing herself onto her feet with surprising steadiness. Even though she’s had more alcohol than the rest of the bunch, she also seems the most sober—which, considering the fact that Bobby is now balancing the room service menu on his head like a hat, isn’t saying much.

“Do what?” Mina asks.

“Confess,” Vanessa says, and maybe she’s drunker than I think she is, because I have no idea what she means.

Rainie does, though. “Let her go,” she tells all of us as Vanessa staggers toward the door, fumbling twice to turn the knob. “She’s been crushing hard on this guy for ages.”

The menu slides off Bobby’s head with a loud flapping sound as he turns, eyes wide. “Who?”

But whatever the answer is, I don’t hear it. A chill has started creeping up my spine, and before I’m forced to prove Bobby’s government conspiracy theory incorrect firsthand, I leap up, mumble something about checking to see if Vanessa’s okay, and run.

16

I knock once on Peter’s door and try to steady my erratic breathing.

Taking the lift was too risky—there are always security cameras on those things, and it’d be impossible to explain a button lighting up on its own if someone else were inside—so I ran all the way up the stairs instead. The entire back of my shirt is soaked through with sweat, but it’s hard to tell if that’s because of the physical exertion, or the worry chewing a hole through my stomach.

After what feels like a lifetime, I hear the metallic click of the lock, and the door swings open.

Jake Nguyen squints into the hallway light, his hair a mess, one of those white hotel bathrobes draped over his bare shoulders like a villain’s cape. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. Beside the empty single bed by the window, I can make out Peter Oh’s sleeping figure.

“What the hell,” Jake grumbles, staring straight through me. He scratches his head. “Is anyone there?”

He waits a full two seconds before moving to close the door again, and I duck inside just in time. But as I fumble my way further into the room, I trip over something hard—Jake’s foot. He tenses, the faint bathroom light outlining the crease between his brows.