“Lucky for you, I’ve already set everything up.” He clicks away from the app, and a black page appears, crammed with tiny, multicolored lines of code I can’t possibly comprehend. “All I need is your permission, and the app will be gone. Erased, forever. Permanently rem—”

“Okay, I get it,” I snap. I know Henry was kidding about the farewell party, and that the app’s caused me more pain than anything these past few months, but I still feel a small jolt of grief. We’ve been through a lot together. And at the end of the day, Beijing Ghost did make me a hundred thousand RMB richer—if the police don’t get involved and force me to give the money back, that is. “Just—start already.”

He brings his finger to the screen. Glances back at me. “You sure?”

I roll my eyes, but nod.

“Three...”

I hug the pillow tighter. Lick my chapped lips.

“Two...”

This is for the best, I remind myself. The less evidence, the lighter the punishment.

“Wait,” Henry says, frowning.

A notification has popped up over the page: Mobile network not available.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” I mutter, taking the phone from him and holding it up at different angles. “Sorry about that. I should’ve warned you—sometimes the connection’s really shitty around here.”

“Maybe I can try one of my other phones,” he suggests.

“I don’t know, it usually doesn’t...” I trail off as an idea sparks in my mind. I drop the phone and turn to face him, my heart pounding at the possibility. If it works... “Actually, let’s not shut the app down.”

“Pardon?”

I smile. “I have a better idea.”

Four hours later, Henry and I are staring down at a five-page-long, just-completed article, a draft email, and the Beijing Ghost app.

Though the cartoon ghost logo and the name are still the same, everything else about the app has changed. The home page no longer promises complete confidentiality and anonymity, or advises the preferred method of payment, but instead encourages students of Airington to “get on top of their studies.”

All my previous private messages have been erased too, replaced by innocuous questions from different accounts—thanks to Henry and Chanel’s many phones—about exam results and the recent chemistry assignment and different interpretations of Macbeth.

Well, not all messages. Andrew She’s long instructions for kidnapping Peter are still there, in bold, as well his original offer of one million RMB in exchange for the task.

“Okay, let’s go over our story one more time,” I tell Henry, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the bed beside me. “How did I end up accepting Andrew’s offer on Beijing Ghost?”

Henry nods and straightens like we’re about to take an exam, then rattles off the answer with impressive speed. “At the start of the school year, I decided to create a study app for some user experience design practice. The main idea behind it was that through the app, anyone at Airington could help each other answer school-related questions, while also earning some extra cash as an incentive. All the accounts are anonymous, but there’s a point system that awards extra points to those who’ve offered the most help, and thus have the most credibility. And since you were, by far, the highest-ranked account, with a reputation for taking on whatever problems came up, regardless of subject or difficulty...”