I wilt beneath her scrutiny. For the first time, I am ashamed of my appearance. Here I am, bundled in my clothes from Robach and the coat from his car, all caked with dirt and grime.
She inches closer but halts when I tense. “We need to leave here now. You cannot stay, or the Cleaners will take care of you too. Do you understand me?”
I do not see any issue with cleaners. I could use them. I remember watching, on the CCTV, cleaners pick up Monsieur’s dirty clothes. But the way she’s made them sound, maybe that is not what these cleaners do.
“For your trouble, will you return with me to my room? You can sleep in a nice bed and get real, hot food, not processed food from the store. And tomorrow, we can decide what the next step will be.”
Tomorrow? We? She must be concussed. She speaks of us as a pair when there is only me, and I will be long gone.
She checks the area once more, gingerly stepping over the men. She pulls her lost shoe from a corner where it landed during the assault. Satisfied there is nothing of her left, she walks briskly to the street, toward the hotel, pausing to watch me root around for my knife under the foul man’s body. I push him a little to pull it from under him, let his body fall back in place, and extract what dangled in his hand. Then I kick his corpse for good measure, feeling nothing as I look at the men. No remorse. No joy. Nothing at all.
I tug my rucksack out from where I stowed it. I sling it over my back and turn toward the park.
“Please,” she says, “won’t you come with me?”
I look toward the park. Look at her. Look at the hotel. What if she is like Paul or Bridget or Monsieur? What if she is worse? I cannot take the chance. I shake my head. She visibly deflates, sadness and disappointment washing over her face. It surprises me, is confounding. But she says nothing else and resumes her walk to the hotel.
I catch a whiff of my father’s scent. What if she isn’t like them? What if she’s better, and this is Papa telling me to go with her?
I jog to her side and touch her elbow lightly. She stops, and I hold my closed fist out toward her. She looks at me, puzzled, then looks down. She opens her hand, and in it, I drop what I took from the dead man.
Her smile is the sun, warming me all the way through. My lips twitch in response, having long ago lost a reason to smile.
“Noble gave this bracelet to me for our fifteenth anniversary last month,” she says.
I nod at her since it seems the appropriate thing to do.
“I’m Delphine,” she says. “What’s your name?”
My name. What do I tell her? The adults I have dealt with lately have not been kind to me, have betrayed me in every way possible. Am I making the right decision? But this lady has something about her that rings honest and safe.
I need safe.
We begin walking, crossing the street to the entrance of Le Monantique Hotel.
Who am I? I cannot be Aninyeh. I lost the privilege of her when she died with my family and my village. Whore and bitch, from Paul’s men? Souris, from Monsieur? Wretch and vagrant, as the man in the store referred to me?
Who am I?
Like a ghost from the past, I pull a name no one has ever called me except Papa—his own special name for me. Then I look at the woman and answer, “My name is Nena.”
43
AFTER
“I didn’t peg you for a cheeseburger-and-fries type of lady,” Cort said. He opened the door of Jake’s, looking up when the chimes announced their arrival.
Nena surveyed Jake’s Burger Joint, the scene of her recent crime, noting the diner was bustling with the midday lunch crowd, very different from the night she and Georgia had been there. She was feeling a flood of emotions: anticipation for what she was preparing to do with Kwabena; a twinge of concern about when Witt had said she was “poking the bear”; a rush of worry about what the ease and quickness with which Paul was able to ingratiate himself in the Council meant for the Tribe and, even more so, for her family; and lastly, hope that none of what she had to do meant there would be a bigger target on Cort’s back. She didn’t want to think of any of that at the moment. Right now, Nena just wanted to enjoy a guilt-free afternoon with Cort and a burger and a milkshake.
Nena shrugged. “I’m a bacon-cheeseburger-and-fries type of lady,” she replied.
She knew it meant she was a total glutton for punishment, or playing with fire, or both, that she’d suggested she and Cort meet here, of all places, when he’d proposed they grab lunch.
Cheryl wasn’t on duty today. It was another pleasant-faced server wearing red and white. Nena chose her usual booth, selecting the side against the wall where she could see who came in and out.