I am so relieved that I can’t even speak for a few seconds, and I melt into a chair.
“Tomorrow I’ll have my assistant start working on getting her visa arranged.”
I look at Michael, but he seems just as confused as me. “Visa?”
“She’ll go back with Michael.”
“Back where?”
“Lucerne, Switzerland.”
I jump up and come around the bed to face him. “Switzerland!”
“I should have done it years ago,” Mr. G says. “I thought the convent school was safe enough, but obviously I was wrong.”
“You paid for her to go there?” Michael asks. “You knew where she was?”
“Of course.”
How did I not figure that out before? He must have come looking for Kiki once we left, and found her at the church he knew Mama went to. I try to hide my shock. “You can’t just send her off to some foreign country without asking me!”
He regards me with infuriating patience. He still looks polished and in charge, even sitting in a hospital bed. “You’re what, sixteen?”
“So?”
“And you’re in a gang?”
I ball my fists. “Your point?”
“You’re hardly in a position to offer alternatives.”
I open and close my mouth, trying to think how to respond. He was the one who kept my sister safe and in school. He paid for her to go there. But he kept her out of his home too. He left her living like an orphan; all he did was pay off his guilty conscience. “You never even came to see her,” I finally say.
At this, his smooth forehead wrinkles. “I went once. But . . .”
“It was inconvenient.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Or were you afraid someone would see you and wonder why you’re visiting a mixed kid who happens to look an awful lot like you?”
He doesn’t answer. From the corner of my eye I can see Michael watching his father silently, his face hard and unforgiving.
A lesson of some sort has started on the lawn outside, and I can hear a chorus of young women’s voices slowly reading phrases out loud in French.
“Why can’t we leave now?” I ask. My relief at knowing Kiki really is safe and that she’ll be back with me soon is fading quickly. She’s still not here, now, with me. I need to see her.
“Believe me, we’re getting the choppers refueled and ready to go as fast as we can. I’m anxious too. Sit, Christina, you’re not doing her any good wearing a hole in the floor.”
I had hardly even noticed I’d started pacing again. I slow, turn to face him. “All right, well, if we can’t leave yet, I have questions.”
He folds his hands in his lap and waits.
I glance at Michael. “Why did my mother come and find you?” I ask. It’s the question Omoko partially answered for me, but I want to hear what Greyhill has to say.
He keeps his eyes leveled on me for a beat, like he’s trying to decide if he really wants to tell me anything. Finally, he says, “Because she knew I could help her. I was probably the only person in the world who could.”
Almost against my will I sink into a chair beside Mr. Greyhill’s bed and lean forward, hungry for this explanation. “She told you he was stealing from you,” I say. “That’s why you helped her?”
Mr. G looks from me to his son, who is waiting for answers as well.
“Mr. Greyhill,” I say, “I know you think I’m just a kid, but I killed a man to save Michael today. I deserve to know exactly what happened.” I feel myself trembling. “Michael does too.”
Greyhill blows a long breath out his nose. “She had proof that Omoko had been stealing gold from me—a very detailed ledger of how much he siphoned off from each transaction with the militia. But in exchange for giving it to me, she wanted protection. She asked for a job in my home, behind my gates and guards.”
Michael frowns. “So you do buy gold from these monsters.” He walks to the window and looks out, his bandaged arm held to his chest.
“Do you know how she got the ledger?” I ask.
“She said she had been a prisoner for a while and was able to steal the documents.” Mr. Greyhill’s eyes drop to his hands. “It was later she told me what he did to her.”
“She told you what happened to her?” I hate the note of jealousy that creeps into my voice.
Mr. Greyhill hesitates. “Your mother and I were . . . close.”
“Close? You had a kid with her,” Michael says, his back still to his father.
Mr. G looks up. “I’m not perfect.”
“That’s maybe the understatement of the century,” Michael growls. He turns around. “Did you love her?”
I suck in a breath. I don’t know what I expect Greyhill to say. Maybe to deny it, to say it was just an affair. But he lifts his chin and looks his son in the eye. “Yes.”