He waved to the night guard and pulled into the driveway, parking in the garage. He shut off the engine and sat unmoving, surrounded by darkness and silence. He thought of Bella as she was on the night he first saw her—the red dress, the sultry moves she made on the dance floor. He hated her for her deception, for the madness she had evoked in his father, and the rift she had driven between his parents. He hated her for the disease she had given him, for the shame he never ceased to feel.
He left the SUV and walked quietly across the grounds, entering the house by the side door. Down the hall and across the living room he went, turning on no lights. His parents’ bedroom was in the far wing, forbidden territory, at least officially. As a teenager, he had cased the bedroom in the night, watching his parents sleep. A few times he had been there when his mother had awakened to use the bathroom. He had stood utterly still, a shadow among shadows, and she had never seen him.
He found the notebook in the closet exactly where Patricia had left it years before. He opened it in the darkness. He didn’t understand how Bella’s medicine could have been stronger than his father’s. But he didn’t need to understand. He needed to harness it, to turn the curse back upon itself. Holding the notebook he felt invincible. With it he had exposed Bella’s identity, connecting her child in life with the child in the letters, by way of her name.
He put the notebook back in its place and stifled the urge to cough. He walked back the way he came, steeling himself against the sickness that consumed so much of his energy now. He glanced at Anna’s cottage beneath the stinkwood tree. A light was on in the window. Had she seen him? For the first time that night, he felt a tremor of doubt. He shook his head quickly, banishing the weakness.
Kuyeya. Memory. It was time to settle the score.
chapter 29
Lusaka, Zambia
April, 2012
A week after the trial concluded, the New Yorker published Zoe’s article under the title “The Future of Generosity.” It had taken Zoe three extensive revisions to satisfy Naomi Potter, but in the end her persistence paid off. The piece was sharp, edgy and humane, and it quickly attracted the attention of readers, generating over two thousand shares on social-networking websites within forty-eight hours. By the third day, other outlets in the American media had picked up on it, as had Jack Fleming’s campaign. Zoe received three emails in rapid succession. She read them at the office. The first was from Trevor.
Sis, I saw your article. It was brilliant, of course. I loved the stories about Mom, and I admire the way you talked about Dad. Ironically, you might have even won him some points with independents. But you should have told me about it in advance. Dad interpreted it as a challenge to his candidacy. I’d be prepared for a bumpy ride.
Zoe closed her eyes and confronted her instinctive guilt. I wrote about him as charitably as I could. But the truth needed to be spoken. If he gets his way, real people will die.
She braced herself and opened the second message. Her father had written:
Zoe, I don’t know what to say. I was under the impression that I had instilled in you a basic sense of loyalty. Hold your views, express them freely, but don’t take them public in the middle of a campaign without talking to me first. I’ve been getting calls nonstop. I have to make a statement.
Her father’s words stole the wind from her lungs. She wasn’t surprised by his feelings, but she hadn’t anticipated how much they would affect her. She stood up abruptly and fled the office for the sanctuary of the bottlebrush tree. Was I wrong? Did I make a mistake? She thought of Kuyeya and the corruption-riddled African justice system; of Joseph and Charity and AIDS treatment among the poor; of the women and girls across Zambia whose rapists were exonerated because prosecutors lacked affordable access to DNA technology. She found a measure of solace in her indignation, but peace eluded her.
She wandered back to her desk and read the third email—a breathless missive from Naomi Potter.
Dashing off to a meeting, but I’ve started to hear from reporters. Everyone thinks the piece is a shot across your father’s bow. I told them it isn’t, but they didn’t buy it. They want interviews. What do you want me to do?
Zoe typed a hasty reply: “Please tell them the article is all I have to say.” Five minutes later, Naomi wrote her again:
Understand completely. I just heard from CNN. They want you on Piers Morgan. Be glad you’re in Africa.
Zoe responded to her brother next:
Dear Trevor, I didn’t tell you because I knew you would try to talk me out of it. I wanted to stay on the sidelines, but I found that I couldn’t. The America Dad is talking about isn’t the country I believe in. I love you dearly. I hope I haven’t hurt our relationship.
Last, she replied to her father: