Chapter 22: The Pad Does Not Know You

Renata's POV

I opened the front door and stepped out onto my own step.

The porch light was on.

Nico stood on the path with his hand still raised.

He had been sleeping in his car.

His good jacket was creased, his beard had grown out ragged, and he smelled of whiskey and wet wool.

"Ren," he said. "Thank God. Fi told me you were out."

"Fiora told you what I wanted her to."

His hand dropped.

He looked past me into the hall, at the coat rack, at the shadow behind the door.

"Where is she?"

"Safe."

"Let me in," he said. "We'll talk. You and me, like adults. I'll say sorry. I'll say it however you like."

He tried his thumb on the pad again.

It glowed red.

"Fix it," he said. "It's broken."

"It isn't."

"Renata."

"It knows exactly whose thumb it is."

Across the street, a porch light came on.

Then another.

Headlights turned onto the block, one pair, then three, then six.

Cars pulled up at the curb behind him with their engines running, and the doors opened.

The white-haired captain got out of the first one.

The man with the limp got out of the second.

They came up the path in their good coats, the Table's men, ten of them.

They stood on either side of Nico in the yellow light.

Behind them came the foreman with twenty men from the yard.

Neighbors stood at their railings in robes and slippers.

Nobody held up a phone.

"You wanted an audience on Thursday," I said. "You have one."

Nico turned in a slow circle.

He saw the faces, and the porches, and the quiet.

"What is this?"

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