“No,” I moan, shaking my head.
“Turn it off! Don’t watch, Tina,” Michael says, like he’s suddenly understanding what’s about to happen, but I furiously slap his hands away from the keypad.
“Tina,” he pleads.
Wordlessly, Mama starts forward toward her killer, and just like that . . .
Bam.
She stumbles back.
I feel an animal noise rip from my throat, and my hands fly to my face. Beside me I hear Boyboy choke. But I can’t look away. A glossy sheen hovers near her heart. Blood on her black uniform. She keeps stepping back. Her knees buckle; the sofa catches her.
She lets her head sink into the cushions, like she’s just going to rest for a second.
And for a while nothing happens. For nearly a minute it’s just her, sitting there, and you can see her chest heaving, like she’s exhausted, like she’s run a race. The killer places the gun in the exact middle of Mr. Greyhill’s desk. He continues to watch Mama, never turning to show his face to the camera.
I’m making some noise, over and over again.
Then the screen whips away again and back.
“He just left through the tunnel,” Michael rasps. “I didn’t see his face. Did you see his face? Was it Mwika?”
I can’t answer. I’m starting to tilt sideways. I feel Boyboy holding me up.
My mother is dying as I watch. Someone help her. Please. And just then, behind her, the door to the office flies open and there’s a blur and the next thing I see is Mr. Greyhill on his knees before her, pressing at her chest.
“What’s he doing?” I gasp. Black flows between his fingers.
It’s too much. My vision is going. I can’t breathe anymore. Water is running down my face and neck. My heart feels like it’s being pressed through a sieve. For one moment an impossible hope flutters in my chest. He’ll save her. He’ll get her to a hospital and she’ll be okay.
And that’s when I see her head rise and her eyes open. She’s still conscious. For a moment I think she’s going to try to push Mr. Greyhill away. But she just looks at him, reaches her hand to the side of his face. He presses into it, his whole body shaking. Then her hand falls. Her head rolls back.
And my mother dies.
Her spirit peels away from her body and she is gone.
And I cannot breathe.
I hear something. My name. I feel hands on my arms, on my back. I can’t move.
The world is spiraling into one bright and terrible point, sparking at the edges.
THIRTY-TWO
I don’t remember standing up, or walking out of the room. I find myself in the grass outside, taking in gulps of wet air. The world pulses and blurs. I see the reflection of the lamp catching beads of falling rain in the dark like a million little needles. I can’t keep myself upright, and I fold, holding on to my knees, rain on my back.
Bent over double, I hear footsteps behind me. They stop. I know without turning around that it’s Michael. He stands there for so long, watching my hunched shoulders without speaking, that I can’t stand it anymore and finally round on him, my fists curled. “What?” I gasp. “What do you want me to say? You were right! Your dad didn’t do it! He didn’t kill her!”
“Tina.” He reaches out.
I reel back, for a second thinking I’m going to fall. “Don’t touch me!”
He doesn’t. He steps forward slowly. I stand there, rain pounding all over me. My whole body is shaking and hot like I have a fever.
“I’m so sorry, Tina,” he says. “You shouldn’t have had to see—”
“Stop! Just stop!”
“This doesn’t change anything,” he tries, moving toward me again. “Maybe that was Mwika. We’ll still find out who killed her. I’ll help you.”
“I don’t want your help! I don’t care about you, or your dad, or Mwika or Omoko!”
Michael looks confused, and I realize he doesn’t know who Mr. Omoko is. I’m screaming like a crazy person. I don’t care.
“Come back inside, Tina. The rain . . .” He takes my wrist.
“Don’t.” I try to yank my hand away, but he holds it tight. “Don’t,” I repeat. I can’t look at his face. I am drowning. I need to sit. If I don’t sit I’m going to fall.
“Tina.” He moves closer. “Look at me. I’m so sorry . . .”
“No,” I whisper, but I’m stuck, unable to go forward or back. The light and the dark are swirling in and out. The rain feels like blisters on my skin. I still can’t breathe.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says so quietly that I almost don’t hear him. His face swims in front of me. I feel his arms under my palms like the branches of a tree, sturdy and hard. “We’re not going to stop. We’ll figure out who killed her.”
He is so close that I can feel the heat coming off him through the rain. His eyes are luminous. I can’t see anything but his face, soft and familiar. I am so dizzy. My body stops fighting. My lids start to droop. There’s a strange, chalky taste in my mouth.