“I get the feeling you’re not selling cookies."
He raised his eyebrows at the contact, but didn’t say anything, still looking at his phone. “Funny. For me, the rebellion came after my parents went.” He double tapped the enlarge button on his phone and it projected a hologram of what he had been looking at. “Police say gas leak,” he said, nodding at the article displayed, which featured a picture of her burned down house. “Bet that’s not what you think, though.”
She snorted. “My home had no gas. It was run by solar panels. Plus, look.” She pointed at the corner that had it the worst. “That was my bedroom, there would be no gas pipes there.”
“Also, Daddy was a preacher, he had his son, I was just a brat daughter that was in the way all the time. Harlem is no place for a teenage girl. Not in the seventies.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve pretty much ruled out good childhoods as a physical possibility… Huh. Anyone want you dead?” he asked, closing the screen and setting his phone down on the coffee table.
“My old pimp, my drug dealer. Any number of Russians, HYDRA agents or AIM agents.” She shifted, putting her head in his lap, so she was looking up at him.
