Mr. CEO(124)

“Because Peter DeLaCoeur is a snake who deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail,” Andrea says softly, but with steely intensity. “That's why she died, and why I'm here.”

I sit back, and look at my half-sister, who's spent most of her life in a sort of uneasy rivalry with me, but in this instant, there's no taunting, there's not even the sort of dismissive mentor look she had when lending me books on business. Instead I see a supportive, caring person, and in her blue eyes, I see something that I've missed and overlooked for too long. Peter and Margaret might be my parents, but they're sure as hell not my family. Andrea is. “What can we do?”

Andrea stands up and offers her hand. She takes my hand, and there's a deceptive strength in that grip and steel in her eyes as she helps me to my feet. “The first thing we do is get you cleaned and bandaged up. You busted the hell out of your hands, and we need to bandage them. Then... then we’ll discuss what I've been doing for the past six years.”



“What do you know of my childhood, Jackson?”

I've taken off my shirt, washing it out in the sink before hanging it from the end of Katrina's bed frame, while Andrea's changed as well, pulling on one of the t-shirts that Katrina kept in her dresser. Despite Katrina being slender and liking shorter shirts, she was still a lot taller than Andrea, and the shirt hangs past her waist, looking almost oversized on my half-sister. I'm sitting on the bed, my hands stinging from the disinfectant and half dozen bandages that we borrowed from downstairs. Andrea is in one of the chairs, the blanket from the bed wrapped around her shoulders to let her stay warm.

“You came to us when you were still really young. I can't remember exactly when, but I was young myself, I couldn't have been more than three or four.”

Andrea nods. “I was brought here from Osaka when I was eighteen months old. The Japanese government was pissed, but since I was brought over on an American passport by agents of my biological father, there was little they could do. I'm an American citizen after all, with a birth certificate from the State of Louisiana even. But that's beside the point. What do you remember about my mother?”

I shake my head. I was so little. “Nothing. I mean, I know some rumors, but I personally remember almost nothing. I know she had an affair with Peter, obviously, but other than rumors, I can't say.”

Andrea nods. “I remember almost nothing, too. My grandmother got to send me a few packages when I was smaller, and before my grandparents died, I got a few things. In my room at the house, I have a picture of my mother, back in '94 before she had me, maybe before she met Peter, I'm not sure. She's wearing her student chef's whites, and posing in front of Emeril Legasse's restaurant. In the photo she's throwing up a peace sign of course, since that's something Japanese people often do when they get their pictures taken. She looked so excited and happy, and it was from wanting to read the letters from my grandmother about my mother that led to my own studies of Japanese. But what really drove me was trying to figure out who she was, and why she died.”

“What happened?” I asked. “I mean, I heard she committed suicide.”

“That's what the official story is, and after the arguments that she had with my grandmother and grandfather, it's a pretty reasonable story,” Andrea says painfully. “My grandmother wrote about her eternal shame and regret that she and my mother argued about her affair with Peter the night before she died, and that she said that I shamed the family. Then there was the note that they found in my mother's dress, tucked into the belt, where she said that she could no longer live with the same.”

“You said official story. There's something more?” I ask, and Andrea nods. “Tell me, please.”

“Peter was involved. I mean, besides the fact that I was kidnapped out of Japan and brought here, he was involved. I've never been able to prove that he had a direct hand in my mother's suicide beyond a phone call where he basically told her that she was outta luck, but I have my suspicions. What I do know is that my mother's death wasn't a suicide.”

“How?” I ask, and realize I may sound like I'm doubting her. “I mean, how'd it happen?”

“Security camera footage showed two men visiting the apartment building where my mother and I lived. It took me a very long time and a lot of connections to obtain it. Later, both men were busted by the cops on an unrelated charge, but what was interesting was that the handwriting of one of the men perfectly matched the handwriting used in my mother's suicide note. Even the grammar and word choice was the same. My mother spoke and wrote in the Kanto-style dialect of Japanese, and from some of her earlier school writings that my grandmother sent me, she had pretty, almost dainty writing. The note was written in a heavy, sloppy hand, and was written in Kansai-ben, the Osaka style of Japanese. The differences are small to foreigners, like using ore instead of watakushi to refer to herself, but I really applied myself with my language studies... there's no way that Aiko Mori wrote that note.”

I gawk, and Andrea nods. “Yeah. So you see why I've got a sword to grind against Peter DeLaCoeur as well. For the past six years, I've been pretty much doing the same thing Katrina was, gathering information. I was just looking to finish my MBA before taking him down. When I heard about what you were up to, I approached Nathan when he came back by himself today. He told me where to find you.”