“Why’d you do it?”
“You survived, didn’t you? If I wanted to kill you, I’d have targeted the bed.” He looked guilty, for a moment, and thenstraightened his face. “They said they’d promote me. And if I get promoted, it gives me a chance to change it from the inside. There arebattles, and thenwars.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” I said, rolling my eyes. I wasn’t going to allow my attempted murderer to preach to me. “If you don’t mind, I have a safe to break. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of my way.”
This was not West Egg anymore. In Buchanan’s house, absent its owners, I could say anything I wanted.
Cannon put down the bottle and slow clapped, pretending to be impressed. “If you’re determined to do this, I wish you good luck, Nicholas. We’ll see how Buchanan reacts when he hears you’ve broken into his house in an effort to rob him.”
He walked toward a phone, where it was sitting on its base on a table by the couch. I ran toward it, ripping its curly stem out of the wall before he could get to it.
Cannon froze, mouth twitching a bit. Then he grabbed a camera from a utility stand I didn’t even notice was there and snapped a photo of me. “All those theatrics,” he said. “And you still lost! The absurdity writes itself.”
“Are you not ashamed to be turning me in like this?”
“Oh, brother. Now the radical’s going to preach to me.” He stormed over to the counter and took another sip of wine, pulled it down, and grunted like a lawn mower. “Don’t act like you don’t walk around like you’re better than us now that Gatsby’s made you his lapdog. Your problem is you have no idea how arrogant you really are.”
“I’m not the one trying to sell out my own people for a quick buck.”
“Lovely story,” he said with a hand wave. “My choice to take the evidence back to the precinct is so that all of Harlem doesn’t have to bear the consequences of your actions if you were to succeed. Do you really think you could do this andno oneelse would have to pay for your hubris?” Cannon skipped from the room with the camera.
I chased him and he sped up, looking quickly over his shoulder with alarm. I tackled him down the three steps and into the den. We rolled through a brass table and an urn collapsed over us.
Cannon scratched my face as we rolled across the fur rugs. “I tried to help you, Nick!”
The soaring ceilings rolled into the upholstered furniture into oak banister as we grappled with each other. And then, Cannon slammed my head into the table and stood up.
“Sorry,” he said, with a little chuckle. “That last one was kind of rough.”
As a spot of blood trickled over my eye, I blinked and found my bearings. Someone else in the mansion, who must have heard the commotion, ran into the room. The moment Cannon spun around, Zihan jumped like a frog over the couch and landed wrapped around Cannon’s body, a rag clapped over his face.
Cannon passed out in seconds, and I stood up, brushing dirt off my clothes.
“Sorry I am late—I was helping Jay,” Zihan said. “Gatsby’s party will be over soon! People have already started to leave.”
“There’s two more safes,” I said, while I relieved Cannon of the revolver strapped to his body.
Now that a Buchanan accomplice knew I was in here, there was a witness, and I needed to make this worth it. I had to get everything I could, and I didn’t want to leave behind the safes in the vents before I went. It was there that I might find evidence of Buchanan’s wrongdoing secreted away. The first safe may have secured our fortune, but this could be the thing to undo Buchanan.
“Wait,” Zihan said, stopping me as I turned to head up the stairs. “If you’re going for the other safes, you’ll need me to cover you again. Cannon won’t stay down for long.”
He glanced at the unconscious Cannon sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow beneath the rag Zihan had used. Zihan used a length of rope to bind Cannon’s hands.
Together, we hurried upstairs to Buchanan’s library, our steps light on the plush carpet. I led Zihan to the vented wall panel. Behind it, I knew, was the second safe—one that could hold his most damning secrets.
“Here,” I said, kneeling. “Help me unscrew this.”
Zihan knelt beside me, producing a pocketknife from his jacket. He pried at the screws while I kept an ear out for any signs of Cannon regaining consciousness.
The vent came free, revealing a small but sturdy safe embedded in the wall, its surface gleaming. My heart pounded as I fumbled with the grease. Zihan kept watch, his eyes darting between the hallway and the vent, as I rubbed a pipe cleaner through the little tub.
“What’s in this one?” Zihan asked.
The safe door burned off and inside was a stack of thick envelopes.
“Documents,” I replied, not looking up from my work. “Everything Buchanan’s used to ruin lives.”
I rifled through them quickly, scanning the contents. Contracts, deeds, and a letter signed by Buchanan detailing a payout to that rich politician trying to kick migrants out of the city.
