Michael’s eyes go wide. “You never told me about that.”
The ache in my throat turns to anger. “She didn’t abandon me. She came for me eventually.”
“But . . . a few days? Where was she?”
I turn my back to him again. “I don’t know,” I say over my shoulder. “She didn’t tell me. I think she told Donatien, but he won’t tell me either. And like I said, I really don’t remember much about it, okay? After a while she found me in the forest and we left. End of story.”
“But she never said where she had been?”
I shake my head no.
Michael is quiet while he thinks. Finally, he lets out a deep sigh. “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. What if something happened and she came to my dad looking for help? Maybe he was protecting her.”
“Protecting her? Why would he do that?”
“Maybe she had something he wanted.” He looks at me and makes a face. “No, not that. Something else. Gold?”
“He had plenty of gold,” I say. “What would Mama have brought with her from Kasisi that he couldn’t get himself? He had gold; he had power. She had nothing but me.”
“Information, maybe?” Michael muses, making a note.
I tap my teeth with my fingernail. It’s true that in a dirty line of work you need to know everything you can about everything. “Maybe something about the militias?” I ask. “Or someone who worked for him? You know, Donatien said your dad didn’t buy the gold from the militias himself. He said there was a Kenyan guy who did it. That’s who Mama had seen out there making the deals. Any idea who he would have been?”
Michael stops writing. “Wait, so you’re saying she never even saw my dad in Congo?”
“I . . . I thought she had.”
“You thought she had?” Michael says.
“Donatien never really, um, clarified that until yesterday. But it doesn’t change what your dad did,” I add quickly. “The Kenyan guy was there on his orders. And she knew your dad was the mastermind behind everything. Donatien told her.”
“But she never actually saw him doing anything bad?”
“Don’t act like he’s all innocent,” I snap. Suddenly I sit up straight. “Wait. Mwika! It could have been David Mwika who was doing the buys! He’s Kenyan, right?”
Michael looks dubious. “Lots of people are Kenyan, Tina. And I don’t know . . . He would have needed to be away a lot, right? Doing stuff in Congo? Mwika was always around, with Dad or with us.”
But Mwika sounds the most likely to me. A loyal servant, doing his master’s bidding. “Hey!” I say brightly. “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s ask him!”
Michael scribbles something angrily in his notes. “I’m working on it.”
My glibness evaporates. “Are you even trying?”
“Of course I am! He’s not easy to get in touch with.”
“Are you sure you know where he is?”
“I know, okay? I overheard Dad talking to someone on the phone about the company where he’s working now.”
My pulse quickens. “Which is where?”
Michael stares at me for a long time. Finally he says, “It’s called First Solutions. It’s a security firm working in Congo.”
“First Solutions. That’s great. We can find him easy!”
Michael frowns. “Did you hear me? I’ve been trying to get in touch, but I can’t get anyone at the company to return my calls.” Michael looks frustrated, but he doesn’t know what magic Boyboy can do with just a smidgen of information. If anyone can find someone, it’s him.
I hear my phone buzz with a text. “Finally,” I say, seeing it’s from Boyboy. “I’ve got to go.” I stand up.
“What? No.” Michael stands up too. “I can’t leave the house. Mom basically grounded me until I’m eighty.”
For a moment I just look at him, and I want to say, How strange—a mother around to ground you. It sounds like something out of a movie.
“I’m not asking your permission. I have to meet Boyboy.” I put my phone in my pocket. “I’m coming back,” I add, seeing the furrow between his eyebrows.
“At least let one of the drivers take you.”
“So he can make sure I don’t run away?”
Michael doesn’t respond.
“Fine, but he’s dropping me off at Saint Raphael’s and I’ll meet him back there. And if he follows me, I’ll know and I’ll slash his tires.”
“Jeez, Tina. Don’t be such a Goonda.”
I think he means it as a halfhearted joke, but it leaves me cold.
“It’s what I am, rich boy. Get used to it.”
? ? ?
When I get to the roof, Boyboy is already there, enthroned in the safari chair again. His outfit is more demure today—a studded leather jacket and pants in a color he would probably call something like sea foam. His nails are painted lavender.
“You better not have forgotten anything there,” Boyboy says, “because I know you are not going back. Bug Eye’s orders. You stay here with me. We are done. This is it. This is everything.”