Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(68)

I was about to toss Imogen’s handbag into a box when I noticed a leather-bound book inside. I opened the cover. The book was the diary Natty had mentioned. It was so like Imogen to keep a paper journal. I didn’t want to snoop on her, but I also wanted to know what her last months had been like. She had always been a good friend to me, and well, I missed her.

I flipped through the pages. Her scrawl was familiar—a tiny, feminine slant.

This particular diary started about two years ago. She mainly detailed what she was reading. As I was not a reader, I found the whole thing rather boring. And then, an entry from a little over a year ago, February 2083, caught my eye:

G. getting sicker every day. Asked Mr. K. and me to help her die. And then several weeks later:

It is done. G. sent the kids to the wedding. Mr. K. cut power to the building for an hour. I upped G.’s drugs so she wouldn’t be in any pain & I held one of her hands & Mr. K. held the other & finally her eyes closed & her heart stopped. R.I.P., Galina.

I threw the book across the room, and when it landed, I could hear some of its delicate pages tear. Imogen Goodfellow had helped Nana commit suicide! And “Mr. K.” could only be my Mr. Kipling.

I tossed the diary into a canvas bag and then I left the apartment and started walking down to Mr. Kipling’s apartment. The sky had been a menacing gray all afternoon, but the evening had made good on that threat and a truly hard rain had begun to fall. Neither I nor Daisy Gogol, who had insisted she come with me, had brought umbrellas, and we were drenched by the time we reached Mr. Kipling’s apartment at Sutton Place.

I rarely visited Mr. Kipling at his apartment. Most business could wait until the morning. I asked the doorman to call up but he recognized me and waved me toward the elevator. Daisy Gogol decided to stay in the lobby.

Mr. Kipling’s wife, Keisha, answered the door. “Anya,” she said, holding out her arms to me. “You must be freezing. You’re soaked through. Come in. I’ll get you a towel.”

I walked into the foyer, where I dripped all over their marble floor.

After a minute, Keisha returned with a towel and Mr. Kipling.

Mr. Kipling’s face was concerned. “Anya, what is it? Has something happened?”

I told him that I needed to speak to him alone. “Yes, of course,” Mr. Kipling said. He led me into his home office.

One wall was covered in pictures. Mostly, they were of his wife and daughter, but there were pictures of my father and mother, and me, Natty, and Leo, too. I noticed one or two of Simon Green.

I took Imogen’s journal out of the bag and set it on his wooden desk.

“What am I looking at?”

“Imogen’s journal,” I said.

“I didn’t know she kept one,” Mr. Kipling said.

I told him that I hadn’t known either. “She says things in it”—I paused—“things about you.”

“We were friends,” Mr. Kipling said. “I can’t know what you’re talking about unless you tell me.”

“Did you and Imogen kill Nana?”

Mr. Kipling sighed heavily and put his balding head in his hands. “Oh, Annie. Galina wanted us to. She was suffering so much. She was in pain all the time. She was losing her mind.”

“How could you do that? Do you know what Nana’s death led to? Leo getting in the fight with Mickey at the funeral, and Leo shooting Yuri Balanchine, and Leo getting shot himself. And me having to shoot Jacks. And me having to go to Liberty. And everything. Everything terrible that happened began with Nana’s death!”

Mr. Kipling shook his head. “You’re a smart girl, Annie. I think you know it started long before.”

“What do I know? I know nothing! I’ve been in the dark for a year now. You left me that way.” My face was flushed and my throat was raw. “You betrayed me! Nana and Imogen are probably in Hell! And you are going there, too!”

“Don’t say that. I would never betray you,” Mr. Kipling insisted. “The truth is, I worked for Galina before I worked for you. How could I deny her?”

“You should have come to me.”

“Your nana wanted to protect you. She didn’t want you involved.”

“She wasn’t in her right mind. She didn’t know what she wanted. You said so yourself. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Annie, I love your family. I loved your father. I loved Galina. I love you. You must know that I did my best. That I did what I thought was right.” He moved around his desk to put his arm on my shoulder but I shook him off.

“I should fire you,” I whispered. My voice was husky, and I was on the verge of losing it altogether. I’d been yelling at people all day.

“Give me a stay of execution. Just this once,” Mr. Kipling pleaded. “I love you, Annie. I love you like my own flesh and blood. There are other lawyers, maybe even better ones. But your business is not business to me. Your business is my life and my very heart. Your father was the best man I have ever known, and I promised him I would take care of you in any way I could. You know this. If ever I betray you again, even inadvertently, you have my permission to fire me immediately. God as my witness, I will fire myself.”

I turned to look at Mr. Kipling. He was holding his arms out wide, a gesture of beseeching. I moved closer to him, and I let him embrace me. For a variety of reasons, I could not bring myself to mention Simon Green.