It’ll be fine. Peter will be fine. I’m doing the right thing.

Right?

Peter’s stopped outside the room now, the numbers 2005 gleaming bright gold in the light, like some kind of sign. An invitation. Andrew She’s men are waiting for him on the other side of the door.

And one million RMB is waiting for me. A future at Airington. A better future, period.

All I have to do is see Peter through it.

He clears his throat softly, adjusts the collar of his jacket, and I wonder if he can sense that something’s wrong. If he’s thinking about turning around, running away to the safety of his own hotel room.

I don’t realize just how much I want him to do exactly that until he raps the door once, shoulders braced.

And everything happens very quickly.

Too quickly—so quick that it’s almost anticlimactic.

The door swings open and I think I catch a glimpse of a gloved hand reaching out, pulling him in, and I manage to grab Peter’s phone from his pocket just in time for the door to slam shut again, with Peter trapped behind it.

There’s a rustling sound from inside, a series of thuds, and Peter’s voice, more confused than afraid: “What are you—”

Then it cuts off into silence. Just like that.

It isn’t violent. It isn’t anything.

If I weren’t gripping Peter’s phone so tight my knuckles bled white, I’d think he was never here at all.

I stare at the door for a long time, as though in a dream, a nightmare, until a small voice in the back of my head urges: Leave.

Get out of here. Your job is done.

I tear my eyes away and move, but the second I turn the corner, my legs give way beneath me.

I sink straight to the floor as if someone’s removed all the bones from my body. I gasp for air that doesn’t seem to be there, wait for the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach to go away because I’m safe—I did what I had to—I succeeded—

But the sick sensation only grows. Nausea rises up my throat, filling my mouth with saliva, the sour taste of regret.

God, I must be the worst criminal in the world.

I should be celebrating. I should be thinking about all the money that’ll be added to my bank account. One million RMB. Enough for me to never have to stress about being sent off to Maine or a local school again. I won’t even have to stress about college.

But instead, all I can focus on is whatever’s happening on the other side of that door. Peter had stopped talking midsentence. Does that mean they’d gagged him? Hit him? Surely I would’ve heard it if they did...

Peter’s phone beeps.

I almost jump out of my skin. My hands are shaking as I hold up the screen, expecting to see some kind of criminal alert or imposter warning or a message from the police.