City of Saints & Thieves(14)

That and so much more.

“Well, you’re too late,” Michael says bitterly. “All those lies have been paraded around in the press and he’s still standing. No one has any proof. And that’s because it’s not true. Extracta’s mines all pass their health and safety checks, every time. The miners get good wages. No one’s a slave.”

“I’m impressed, Mikey. You know more about Daddy’s company than I would have thought. Too bad all your intel is wrong. Where did you get it? Oh, let me guess, Extracta Mining Company’s head of East African operations, Mr. Roland Greyhill, aka Daddy?” I shake my head in mock sympathy. “My money’s on his hard drive telling a different story. It’s true that Extracta’s already under scrutiny, though. And they’re going to need a scapegoat when this all comes out. Guess who that’s going to be?”

“How do you know what’s on his hard drive? Did you look at the files?”

“It—I just do.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “You didn’t have time. You weren’t in there that long. You didn’t see anything. He doesn’t have slaves. He doesn’t work with terrorists.”

I suck my teeth in impatience. Does Michael live under a Swiss rock? “Don’t you know how it works in Congo? Allow me to educate you. Militias and the Congolese army are fighting, and to keep fighting they need money and weapons. They use slave labor to mine gold, and your dad buys it on the cheap from them. Then he launders that gold through Extracta’s mines, acting like it’s all shiny and conflict free.”

Michael’s brow is furrowed. “No. You’re crazy. Where are you getting all this?”

“I have my sources.”

“It’s all lies. He’s bringing jobs and industry to the Congo.”

He sounds like he’s quoting someone, like he’s memorized this speech and given it before.

“Come on, Michael.” I almost feel sorry for the poor guy. “You’re brainwashed. You don’t get as rich as your dad is playing by the rules.” I wave my handcuffed wrists around the room. “You’ve got me in a torture chamber, for God’s sake!”

“It’s not a torture chamber! It’s a panic room.”

I shake my handcuffs at him. “And these? Are these to keep me from panicking?” I watch him struggle to respond.

A sickish feeling has started creeping up in my stomach, and I don’t like it. It’s not my problem if pretty boy is in denial. Don’t think about Michael, think about Mama, I tell myself. Think about all the bad things Greyhill’s done. He has to pay for them. I have a plan, and I’m sticking to it. I can’t be bothered with the feelings of spoiled rich boys. “It doesn’t matter what you think,” I say. “It’s all going to be out there soon. You’ll see.”

Michael looks like he’s fighting some sort of internal battle. Finally he asks, almost to himself, “Can you stop it? If it’s even there, I mean. Can you stop this so-called proof from getting out?”

I don’t answer right away. What is he asking? Is he trying to threaten me? “Listen, whatever you do, torture me, kill me, it isn’t going to change things. The stuff is out of my hands now. It’s going to be released.”

Which, to be honest, isn’t exactly true, but Michael doesn’t need to know the details. Giving the dirt to Donatien is on me. I’m sure Omoko could trash Mr. Greyhill’s name some other way, but I want it to be Donatien who writes all the bad stuff up and publishes it. He can get it in the big papers. He’s got a stake in bringing Greyhill down and he will do it right.

Just like Boyboy will then hack Mr. Greyhill’s bank accounts the right way.

And like I will do blood.

Just right.

Michael lifts his chin. “What if I can prove my dad didn’t kill your mom? Would you be able to stop it?”

I frown. Normally, I feel like I’m pretty good at knowing when someone else is full of it, but Michael’s got hard to read since we were kids. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Do you know something?”

He still doesn’t move, just keeps watching me.

I’m on my feet, lunging for him. Only the cuffs and the chain stop me. “Don’t play with me, Michael! Do you know something about my mother’s murder?” I can’t quite reach him. “Is it the video from that night? From the camera in the office? Do you have it? Do you?”

His nostrils flare. “No.”

I tell myself to calm down, to let the numbness I’ve worked so hard to cultivate sweep me under. I do not exist. I will not exist, not for him. “Then you don’t know anything,” I say finally, backing up.

“You’re going to ruin my father—ruin all of us—because you think he killed your mother. You don’t even know for sure!”

“I do know! You know it too, or you wouldn’t have asked him if he did it!”

“He said he didn’t kill her, and I believe him!” Michael shouts.

Why do you care whether Michael believes it or not? I ask myself. He doesn’t matter. Leave it.

But I can’t. “I saw them,” I say.

Michael freezes. “You saw him . . . kill her?”