Page 75 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Toby.” Now Liu seems amused, if slightly impatient. “Is it really so hard? Do I need to spell it out?”

Mike might have made a joke about how yes, it’s very hard, thank you. Toby is utterly incapable of formulating even just a simple answer.

“Seriously, man.” Stepping up beside Toby, Liu bumps their shoulders together, his voice gentle. “Don’t you think Mike has proven himself enough by now?”

Toby turns his head just enough to make out the blurred line of Liu’s profile. The gray sky seems bleak all of a sudden, heavy with clouds that hide the sun, nothing to remind Toby of the heat and brightness of a Costa Rican Beach. He likes this city—it holds Matt and Haley and the few friends he can afford, but right now, he barely recognizes it. His suitcase looks displaced on the sidewalk, as displaced as Toby feels in his own skin.

Inhaling air that tastes of concrete and exhaust fumes, he picks up his suitcase, then turns to face Liu. “I request a leave of absence.”

Liu’s smile is brilliant. “Granted. Take as long as you need.”

***

Toby expected to feel better after ten hours of sleep, but no. His eyes are no longer itchy with tiredness, but his thoughts remain a jumbled mess, and the espresso—double shot, no sugar—produced by his expensive coffee machine tastes like dishwater. After emptying the murky-brown liquid into the sink, he leaves the cup on the kitchen counter and grabs his running shoes.

It’s been a while since he went running in the streets; he mostly uses the Agency’s fitness facility these days. He has almost forgotten what the sidewalks feel like under his soles, the sound of his feet on the pavement, the delicate burn in his legs after thirty-five minutes in the anaerobic zone. His head is blessedly empty as he slows down, the concrete buildings that surround him less oppressive than they seemed before.

From what Toby has seen, Hawaii is blue skies and beaches that flow into the ocean, palm trees and bright colors. An American-style version of Costa Rica, with better roads and worse pizza.

Leaning against the side of a business building, Toby rewards his body with a two-minute break. Then he turns around, dodging well-dressed office workers, on his way back to an apartment where unpacked boxes are still scattered around the living room.

Hawaii.

Mike spent at least part of his childhood in Hawaii. He has a sister called Mary. His father was a high-ranking policeman. Roughly two decades ago, both Mike’s father and mother died in what might have been disguised as a traffic accident.

It isn’t exactly the most challenging research Toby’s done.

***

Staten. Michael Staten.

Mike.

XII. Honolulu, U.S.

W hen Toby tries calling Matt from the airport, it’s almost a relief that it goes straight to voicemail. He doesn’t know how to explain the last sixty hours of his life. You just had to be there, man.

“Hey Mattie.” He pauses in front of a screen to check for the right gate. “So, I got back yesterday, but I’m already on my way out again. But—bear with me, okay? Haley’s summer break is coming up, and I know you’ve been too busy to plan much of anything. How do you feel about Hawaii? Plenty of women in bikinis, I’m told.” He picks up his hastily repacked suitcase and proceeds to the check-in counter, pausing for a moment before he adds, “Think about it, all right? I’m hoping to stay for a couple of weeks, maybe more, and if you guys were to join me, I could meet you at the airport and make sure you have a place to stay. How’s that sound?” With a deep breath, he joins the line at the counter. “I’ll be out of touch for the flight, but call me, okay? Later. And say hi to Haley.”

He disconnects the call and stares at the display for a long moment.

His research yielded a landline number. Toby wrote it down along with Mike’s address, the folded note in his pocket crinkled and sweaty from repeatedly looking at it even though he knows it by heart. Toby could call ahead.

He switches the phone off.

***

Toby pulls off his sweater before he’s even down the jetway, a light breeze ruffling his hair. Honolulu Airport is open on all sides, warm air streaming through the construction that is decorated with a large, cursive ‘Aloha’ in red letters. The airport lobby comes with an actual garden and palm trees that Toby suspects are plastic until he touches one of the trunks, and no, they’re real.

He’s walked right into a living, breathing cliché. At least there are no airport employees waiting to drape flowers around the necks of unsuspecting tourists.

After retrieving his suitcase, he follows the signs toward the taxi waiting area, his path lined by more palm trees. Posters advertise surf wear, dolphin shows and dive tours, bright colors wherever he turns. It’s enough to make his head spin.

He jumps into the first available cab, nerves soothed by the universal scent of cushioned seats that have seen too many people, the stench of their sweat and cold cigarette smoke clinging to the car’s interior despite the open windows. The radio is blasting reggae music.

“Where to?” There is a lazy, laid-back quality to the driver’s question that vaguely reminds Toby of Jesy, and shit, yeah, where to?

Hotel. Toby should find a hotel first, drop off his baggage. Showing up on Mike’s porch with a suitcase would make him look ridiculous at best, desperate at worst.

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