City of Saints & Thieves(70)

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.

“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.