I don’t answer.
“Look,” Michael says, pulling his hand back, “we can’t figure out who killed your mom if we’re not sharing information.”
“The deal was that you find out. I’m still not convinced it wasn’t your dad.” I’m going for anger, but I’m surprised to hear uncertainty behind my words.
“Come on, Tina! Someone sent those guys. Probably someone who’s heard we’re asking about your mom and doesn’t like it. Why would my dad do that? He wouldn’t have them chase me around.”
“How do you know they wouldn’t have left you alone and only taken me?” I say stubbornly.
Michael starts to answer, but just then I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my phone. “Hello? Boyboy?”
Boyboy’s voice is crackly on the line. “You better get back here. I found something in Mwika’s email that both of you need to see.”
“What?”
“It’s a video. Hurry.”
THIRTY-ONE
We can’t find a piki-piki, so getting back to the guesthouse takes forever. Plus we’re slowed down by ducking into the bush on the side of the road anytime someone goes by. I can’t tell if it’s because Michael is angry, or his hand is hurting, or he’s just anxious about finally seeing the video, but we don’t talk.
By the time we get in, it’s dusk. We rush to our rooms, where Boyboy is waiting.
“You should have that taken care of,” I say, gesturing to Michael’s hand.
“Not until we see this,” he says firmly. I should make him go—that hand needs stitches—but I don’t. I can’t imagine waiting a second longer than we have to.
As we’re waiting for Boyboy’s computer to boot up, I see that someone has brought plates of matoke and beans to our rooms. It’s only then that I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I pick up a plate. It’s still warm and I take a few bites, but I must be too nervous because everything seems to have a bitter taste. I quickly give up.
“The video was in Mwika’s email?” Michael asks.
“Mwika sent it to someone and said he wanted half a million.”
“Sent it to who? Mr. Greyhill?” I ask.
Boyboy purses his lips. “I haven’t been able to find out yet. It’s a dummy email and I didn’t want to use up my computer battery tracing who it belongs to. I wasn’t able to charge for very long, and I’ve only got enough power left to watch the video. Maybe not even that. And the hospital hasn’t had electricity all day. Apparently there’s no fuel in this godforsaken town to run the generators.”
But I’m barely listening. My eyes are glued to the grainy image that he’s opened on his screen. “Is that it?”
“Yeah,” he says, but pauses before clicking PLAY. “But it’s not . . . you shouldn’t . . .”
“Just show us!” I say, and reach over him to start the video.
The scene jerks to life. At first there’s only static and a time stamp: five years earlier, the day my mother was murdered. The time: 1:13 a.m. My breath quickens as a light comes on, illuminating a room in black and white.
I lean forward. “That’s it. That’s Greyhill’s office.” My heart thrums. It’s the same view from the camera mounted on the bookcase door.
The camera pans to the side. The bookcase door is opening, I realize. It closes, showing the office again.
And standing there like a magic trick is my mother.
My vision blurs. I blink rapidly to see through the water springing to my eyes. She’s come through the tunnel. I was right. She had been disappearing in the night, meeting Mr. G in his office.
The dour, black maid uniform she wears utterly fails to mask her beauty. Coming around the desk, she kicks off her shoes. She is so much smaller than I remember her, fragile looking as a sapling tree. As she makes her way slowly toward the sofa, she pulls her braids from a knot at her neck and shakes her head. She rubs her scalp with her fingertips. She takes off her earrings. Puts them in her pocket.
I am having trouble breathing. She looks completely at home. Comfortable.
I can’t watch. I have to watch. I can’t watch. I can’t look away.
The scene swivels again, and Mama is lost from view. I rise to my knees. “What’s—” Then it swings back, showing the room again.
And there he is.
He has followed her out of the tunnel.
Her murderer.
My face is inches from the laptop. Michael’s shoulder presses up to mine, trying to see too. All that’s visible of the man is his back. I barely have time to register that his hair and skin are dark—black skin, not Mr. Greyhill—before a gun floats up in his hand.
My mother turns to him.
“No,” I whisper. “No. Get out . . .”
The look on her face when she sees the gun is strange, like she’s not even surprised. Like she’d been waiting for this. She stares at him for a long moment, before her expression hardens into something else. Something almost . . . defiant.