Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(54)

I shrugged, and she set her tray down.

“Clover and Pelham both left just before you came. I’m outta here next month.”

“What did you do anyway?”

Rinko shrugged. “Nothing worse than you. I got in a fight with some dumb beyotch at my school. She started it, but I beat her until she was in a coma. So, like, whatever. I defended myself. I didn’t know she’d end up in a coma.” She paused. “You know, we’re not that different.” She flipped her shiny black hair over her shoulders.

We were different. I had never beaten anyone into unconsciousness. “How so?”

She lowered her voice. “I’m from coffee people.”

“Oh.”

“Makes you tough,” she continued. “If someone crosses me, I’m gonna defend myself. You’re the same way.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You shot your cousin, didn’t you?” Rinko asked.

“I had to.”

“And I had to do what I had to do.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “You look all sweet and innocent, but I know it’s just a front. Rumor has it you sliced off someone’s hand with a machete.”

I tried to keep my face neutral. No one in the States knew what had happened in Mexico. “Who told you that?”

Rinko ate a scoop of mashed potatoes. “I know people.”

“What you heard … It isn’t true,” I lied. Part of me wanted to ask who exactly she knew, but I didn’t want to give myself away to a person I had never particularly liked or found trustworthy.

Rinko shrugged. “I’m not gonna tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not my business.”

“Why did you sit here today?”

“I’ve always believed that you and I should be friends. Someday, you might want to know someone who knows something about coffee. And someday, I might want to know someone who knows a thing or two about chocolate.” She waved her hand around the cafeteria. “The rest of these kids … They’ll go home, and maybe they’ll be all reformed and crap. But you and me, we’re stuck in it. We were born in it, and we’re in it for life.”

A bell rang, which meant it was time for us to return to afternoon exercises.

I was about to pick up my tray to put on the conveyor belt when Rinko intercepted it. “I’m going that way anyway,” she said. “Be seeing you, Anya.”

*   *   *

On Saturday morning, I was released. I had worried that something would happen to make our deal go bad, but Mr. Kipling made the campaign contribution and the corrupt Bertha Sinclair kept her word. I took the boat back from Liberty, and Mr. Kipling was waiting for me at the dock. “So you’re prepared, there’s quite a crowd wanting to hear from Bertha Sinclair,” Mr. Kipling informed me.

“Will I need to say anything?”

“Just smile at the appropriate times.”

I took a deep breath and approached Bertha Sinclair, who shook my hand. “Good morning, Anya.” She turned to face the press who had gathered. “As you know, Anya Balanchine surrendered herself to me a week ago. I’ve had these past eight days to reflect on the matter and”—she paused as if she hadn’t known exactly what she would do the whole time—“I don’t wish to cast aspersions on my predecessor but I think the way he handled Ms. Balanchine’s situation was atrocious. Whether the initial sentence she received was just or unjust, my predecessor had no business returning Anya Balanchine to Liberty last fall. That move was politics, pure and simple, and in my opinion, everything that happened after should be forgiven. Unlike my predecessor, I think there is law and then there is justice. I want you to know that your district attorney is more interested in justice. A new administration is a good time for new beginnings. This is why I’ve decided to release Anya Balanchine, this daughter of Mannahatta, from Liberty, time served.”

Bertha Sinclair turned to me and gave me a hug. “Good luck to you, Anya Balanchine. Good luck to you, my friend.” She squeezed my shoulder with a hand that felt like a claw.

XII

I AM CONFINED; REFLECT ON THE CURIOUS NATURE OF THE HUMAN HEART

THE MORNING OF MY RELEASE coincided with Imogen’s funeral. We drove straight from the pier to Riverside Church, where Mr. Kipling and I were to meet Simon Green and Natty. Immediately after the funeral, I was to begin my month of house arrest. I was wearing a black dress of Nana’s that Mr. Kipling had sent to Liberty for me. The dress was uncomfortably tight across my shoulders. All that machete wielding had bulked me up, I guess.

Riverside Church was about a mile north of the Pool, which was where the New York branch of the Balanchine Crime Family conducted its business. As we drove past the Pool, I gripped the car door handle and wondered if the people in there—my relatives—were the ones responsible for Imogen’s and Leo’s deaths.

The church was next to the river (hence the name Riverside), and the late January wind was sharp and brutal. When we got there, a cadre of press stood shivering on the steps.

“Anya, where have you been all these months?” a photographer yelled at me.

“Here and there,” I replied. I would never implicate my friends in Mexico.

“Who do you think killed Imogen Goodfellow?”