“There’s always resistance, whether you say it with a capital R or not. You may call yourselves the Network, but I don’t see the difference. The Network exists to help the same people who are part of the Resistance.”

“You’re wrong,” Carver says. “The Network is only a humble humanitarian effort, while the Resistance was proactive and political. Let’s move along to—”

I push my chair back. “Can we just cut the semantics crap? You already know all about Miesha, Jenna, Kara’s death, and probably the color of my underwear. Enough with the questions. Why am I here?”

“To help a Non-pact. We already told you,” Mr. F grumbles.

“Who?” I’m not trying to hide my impatience anymore. I understand they aren’t sure if they can trust me yet, are maybe even afraid of who or what I am, but I’m just as wary of them. Meeting shady figures in shady basements doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. I’ve already sized up the room, figured out my fastest exit and the convenient obstacles to throw in their paths. I hope they can hear in my voice that I’m seconds from walking out the door. They either meet me halfway or they don’t.

Carver returns to the table and sits. The four exchange glances. He opens his mouth to speak but Livvy cuts him off. “We aren’t sure, Locke. There’s been a rumor for the last year that the Secretary of Security is holding someone in a special detainment area somewhere in the city. Usually arrested Non-pacts are sent to Reformation and Reassignment Centers in the desert, but not this one.”

“What did he do? Violate public space?”

Livvy shakes her head. “No, for that he would have been whisked to the desert years ago. We think he might be someone who stole some money sixteen years ago. A lot of money.”

I let out a quick puff of dismissive air. “Why would you want to help someone like that? Stealing’s a crime, in case you haven’t heard.”

“If it’s who we think it is, he didn’t do it for himself,” Carver explains. “He did it for the Resistance.”

Bingo. We’re back to that after all. I raise my brows in victory, but they don’t seem to notice, more entranced with this long lost thief.

“It was pure genius,” Xavier continues. “He hit every government contractor who built security systems to keep Non-pacts from public spaces. Nine contractors, eighty billion duros all funneled instantly into a secret account. They went down like dominoes.”

They have my attention. “Eighty billion?”

Mr. F smiles like he’s reliving it all over again. “Besides the financial hit, the humiliation factor for the so-called security contractors was so high, the theft was never revealed to the public. He had done maneuvers like this before on a smaller scale, but this time he outdid himself. The day he did it he sent us a ‘complete’ message in the afternoon along with the account numbers, but by evening he was—”

Carver jumps in. “Gone. And access to the account for eighty billion was gone with him. We thought he had sent us all the numbers, but apparently for safety reasons he only delivered half via cyber-transmittal. We later learned that the other half was to be hand-delivered.” He opens a note window, writes something on it, and flicks it toward me, a virtual memo floating across the air to me. I grab it and it becomes tangible material at my touch, almost like paper. “That was all we got,” he explains, “twelve numbers that are virtually worthless without the rest. He said he’d make sure we got the missing numbers but he never had the chance. He disappeared without a trace. He was either missing or dead.”

“Or he took off with the money. Isn’t that what thieves do?”

“Not him.” Xavier’s ears redden and he looks like he’s going to tear off my face.

I blink slowly so he knows I’m unaffected. A lesson for you, Xavier: Never show the enemy your weakness. “Okay. So missing or dead. But you don’t know which?”

“His house was raided by Security Forces,” Carver says. “Burned out. His body was never produced. His widow—”

It hits me.

I finally hear what they’re trying to tell me. “Hold on. Are you saying that—?” My chair squeals back behind me and I walk away to the other side of the room then right back again. I lean on the table and shake my head. “No! No way! He’s dead. Miesha’s husband is dead. She told me so. I saw the scars on her arms where she—”

“There are rumors about Karden,” Livvy says. “We have to know. If they’re true, he’s been holed up for sixteen years and no one’s tried to help him. We owe him that much.”

I backtrack, trying to remember every word Miesha told me about that night. She never saw them. All she saw was a burning house. I was walking back from the market.… The front door was open and bursting with flames.… I ran, screaming, breaking a window with my bare arms.… I thrashed, desperate to get to them, and then I felt a tazegun at my neck.… When I woke, I was in prison, and they told me they were dead.

She said it herself. She never saw them dead. She only knew what the prison officials had told her. They wouldn’t even let me make any kind of arrangements for their funerals.… As far as I know, their remains were shoveled up along with the burned rubble of the house.

Unless Karden’s body wasn’t there to shovel up. And with eighty billion duros at stake, the Security Forces would have covered all their tracks. But why now, after all these years, are there finally rumors? And if he’s been missing all this time, why the sudden urgency to find him? They all act like time is running out. I look at the four of them seated across from me waiting for me to respond. The table is turned—do I trust them enough to meet them halfway? Eighty billion duros gives them a lot of reasons to lie to me.