City of Saints & Thieves(37)

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.

I hated it.

I hated leaving Mama. I hated leaving Kiki. Every day I would try to fake being sick, or hide, and every day Mama would march me out into the world in my uncomfortable shoes and scratchy uniform, unmoved by the crocodile tears running down my chin. You’re too big for this, she’d say with fire in her eyes. We waited on the corner for the bus, Kiki on her hip, her telling me I was fortunate to go to such a school. Did I know how many children wanted to go to school and couldn’t? And my school had music class. A swimming pool. I took gymnastics in the afternoons. Gymnastics!

Kiki was only one year old and she didn’t know why going to school made me pout, but her lip would quiver along with mine and this would frustrate Mama even more. Don’t cry! You’re going to make your sister cry and I don’t have time!

Then when Kiki turned two, she was old enough to go with me. There was a nursery school attached to mine. She had to go, Mama said. There was no discussing it. But the first day Mama tried to put her on the bus with me, Kiki pitched a fit. She wailed. Screamed like she was being murdered. She didn’t want to leave Mama. I got into my seat on the bus and saw the driver look at the three of us, then his watch. And Mama tried to shush Kiki and put her in an empty seat, but it wasn’t working. Kiki bucked and squirmed and howled. I looked on, not knowing what to do. I mean, I didn’t blame Kiki. I didn’t want to go to the stupid school with their stupid songs and jump rope either. I wanted to play in the Greyhills’ garden. I wanted to climb the strangler fig. I’d stay out of the way. Both of us would. I was about to open my big mouth and say so.

But then I saw Mama’s face. I was too little to understand exactly what she was thinking, but somehow I knew to shut up. She looked like she was at the edge of something very high, looking down. Somehow I knew that Kiki had to go with me. I knew that if Mama went back into the Greyhills’ with Kiki still clinging to her skirt, she would be in trouble. Maybe Mrs. G had put her foot down. Maybe Mama’s place—and ours along with it—was in doubt. Maybe getting us out of sight, at least for a little while, was some sort of deal Mama had struck. Of course, I didn’t understand any of that then; all I knew was that the look on her face made me feel ashamed. Mama needed me to stop acting like a baby.

“I’ll take her,” I said, and held out my arms for my sister. “Come here, Kiki, let me tell you how much fun it is at school.”

And Kiki went quiet, and sniffed, and looked with her big amber eyes from me to Mama. “Schoo?”

I plastered a big smile on my face. “It’s so great! The teachers are really nice, and there are swings and a slide and snack time! Come sit with me!”

“Nak time?”

She let Mama put her in the same seat with me while the other kids on the bus watched and the driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. She was so little that her feet stuck straight out. I buckled a single belt around us.

“You’re going to make so many friends,” I told her. She would. People loved Kiki, with her sunny smile and fat cheeks. Most people, anyway.