Suddenly his eyes gleam. I can’t tell whether it’s hate or something else that shines from them, but there’s finally some emotion in his face. “You’ve gone cold, Tina. We were friends once.”
I laugh. “Friends? You’ve locked me in a cell. Your dad killed my mother. You come from a family of high-class gangsters. What makes you think I’m cold, and not just smart?”
He works his jaw, like he’s got a bone stuck in his throat. “If you’re smart, you know you want this. You want the truth, just like I do. That part of you hasn’t changed, Tina.”
He stands up and opens the door to leave. When he looks back at me, his eyes have lost their glow. He’s got his mask on again. “And there’s one more thing I can offer. That camera you saw in the tunnel? The one that would have recorded your mother’s murder? The footage is gone, but I know who has it. It may take a little time, but I can get it.”
There it is. The bone. I catch my breath. “Who? Who has it?”
“I’ll tell you once you agree to work with me. Think about it,” he says. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
TEN
The concrete absorbs the noise of my feet as I pace the room.
The video, the video. Everything in black and white. Is he serious? Can he really get it? How long will it take? Is he lying? The video. Proof. Who has it? Why? Where is it?
The video, the video.
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Ten steps to the door, eight steps to the cot, five steps to the table. Begin again.
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I talk to myself:
If he’s telling the truth, if he can get it, I will know for sure. I will see him kill her.
Stick to the plan, Tiny Girl. You are so close.
Am I? Seems to me I’m stuck in a pit.
He did it. He killed her. He deserves to pay.
Her killer deserves to pay. What if it isn’t him?
It is him. You know what you saw.
But what if . . .
Shut up, one percent!
But even as I fight myself, I know Michael’s right. Of course I want to know everything. What if I tell him no and give up the chance of seeing what I’ve been wondering about all these years?
What would the count do?
Could I play along with Michael without the Goondas knowing? Boyboy says it could take up to a week to decrypt Greyhill’s data. Bug Eye knows we might have to wait awhile. What if I could play both sides? For just a little while. No one has to know.
A thought stops me in the middle of my stride. What if we didn’t even get all the data off Greyhill’s hard drive?
That doesn’t matter. You broke in once, you can do it again.
Yeah, broke in and got caught.
Back and forth, I count off the room until maybe half an hour has gone by and still I can’t decide.
You have a plan. It’s a good plan: dirt, money, blood. You have worked a long time getting it right.
It won’t work if I don’t have the dirt.
No, the data transmitted. You have the dirt. Boyboy’s decrypting it. In a few days, Omoko will start asking for his money. One way or another, you’re going to have to get it for him. He won’t care about Mama’s murderer. If it isn’t Mr. G, Omoko’s not going to smile and say no big deal, Tiny Girl. Never mind. It was only millions of shillings. But we’ll just forget about it.
Yeah, I know.
Michael is lying. There is no video.
But . . . what if there is?
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I’m so sure Mr. Greyhill did it. I’m so sure.
I’m so ninety-nine percent sure.
? ? ?
Mama would have told me to pray. Maybe to Saint Ignatius, who helps us make decisions. But I don’t know his prayer. I only know one prayer—Catherine’s. I haven’t said another in five years.
? ? ?
Michael will be back any minute. I’m standing in front of a blank wall. I’ve been staring at it so long that little spots float in front of my eyes.
What do I do?
What is the rule?
I try to push everything else aside and concentrate on what is really important: punishing Mama’s killer. Her real killer.
Her real killer is Roland Greyhill.
Unless he isn’t.
Can I say no to Michael, knowing that there may be some final truth out there, and maybe I could have it? Would that video show me her murderer? Would it show me Mr. Greyhill pulling the trigger? Could I finally be sure? One hundred percent sure?
I thought I was getting better at being patient. I’ve waited five years, making my plans, practicing my revenge, like Mr. Omoko told me to. I’ve put all the steps into place, like the count. Can I possibly ask myself to wait longer?
I look around at my cell. Do I have any choice?
What will Michael do to me if I say no? I don’t care so much about dying, but what about Kiki? What about making Mama’s killer pay? None of that is happening while I’m stuck down here.
There is a rule for this moment, but I don’t want to acknowledge it. I don’t like this rule. It sticks in my throat. But it tells me in a low, persistent rumble, Too bad, Tiny Girl. You may not like the rules, but you still have to play by them.
? ? ?
Rule 10: If the stakes are high, play a long game.
Play a long, patient game.
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