“No,” Donatien says, and leans back. He looks past me, toward the water. “You know all this. I dropped the investigation. I didn’t pick it back up until after she was murdered.”
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with just how much I don’t know. I mean, who was my mother, really? A nurse. That’s all she told me. That’s all I can tell Michael when he asks. But how did she find out so much about blood gold? How did she know when and where the exchanges were happening? They were done in some secret place, way back in the jungle, according to Donatien. My mind is churning. I can’t make all the pieces fit into some solid, clear picture of her. How can I know so little about who she was and what happened back there in Congo? A question buzzes in my head like a mosquito. I bite my lip. “She wasn’t in on it, was she? The gold deals?”
Donatien’s attention snaps back to me. “No, nothing like that.”
“How do you know?”
“She just wouldn’t have been.”
“But how do you know?” I demand, thumping my fist on the table. “You barely knew her! I barely knew her!” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He starts to reach for my arm, but then seems to think better of it. “Look, Tina, I admit it. I had the same thought. When she called me, right before she was murdered, I didn’t want to talk to her. I hadn’t heard from her since that day I almost got killed.” He looks up at me guiltily. “I thought it was her who sent those guys to my hotel.”
I don’t move. “You suspected her?”
He nods and goes on, “And so when she got in touch, I asked her about it, and she . . . convinced me. Don’t . . .” He puts up a hand to stop me. “Just trust me. She wasn’t able to meet me and it wasn’t her fault. What happened to me wasn’t her fault. Men came for her that night, just like they came for me. You told me as much yourself.”
It’s true. In the back of my brain I see a lick of fire as high as the trees. I press my knuckles into my eyes, trying to make the image go away. I can’t think about that right now. I come back to the same question. “So why would she then come here to Greyhill, if he sent the men after you and her?”
“How or why your mother eventually ended up working for Mr. Greyhill—that I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. But I’m sure whatever she did was for a good reason. She must have felt like she had to, and that it would be the best way to keep you safe. Your mother was . . . well, she was like you. Tough, but good.” The corners of Donatien’s eyes pinch. “Why so many questions today, Tina? Is something going on? You seem out of sorts.”
I stare at him, then let my gaze stretch out to the water, thinking of my plans for the Greyhill family. “You don’t know me. I’m not that good.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “Look,” I say, swallowing down whatever emotion is trying to force its way out, “I just want to know for sure that he killed her. That’s all.”
Donatien heaves a deep breath. He rotates his beer on the table, leaving damp rings. He must be thinking the same thing I am, that my mother really screwed up when it came to where she thought we would be safe.
“Greyhill did it, Tina. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that. She reached out to me, said she wanted to talk about him, and then she ended up dead. No one had more to lose from her talking than him.”
I know all this already. But I find myself saying, “I need proof.”
“And how are you going to . . .” He frowns, and then I see it in his eyes, something clicking into place. “Oh my God. That kid. I knew he looked familiar. Is that . . . ?” His eyes widen with fear.
“Don’t worry about him,” I say.
Donatien leans forward and grabs my arm. “Is that Michael Greyhill?” he asks in a rough whisper. “Tina, why are you with him? What are you doing?”
“I said don’t worry about it.”
I start to stand, but Donatien keeps a grip on me. “You can’t mess around with these people, Tina,” he hisses. “They go for blood. Think of your mother. Whatever you’re up to with him, you have to stop, now.”
I yank my arm out of his. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Donatien,” I say, “I really do. But I am thinking about my mother.”
“Tina—”
“I have to go,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”
I turn and slip away before he can rise to his feet and stop me.
EIGHTEEN
When I turned seven, I went to school. Not with Michael—he went somewhere that cost a small fortune every term—but it was a decent school close to the Ring. I’m sure Mr. G paid my fees. A bus picked me up from the corner near the Greyhills’ home in the morning and dropped me back every day. The teachers were smart and kind. I learned to read and count and sing the Kenyan national anthem. We colored with real crayons and played kickball in the grass. It was all very pleasant, and I was lucky.