It can’t be. It mustn’t be.
My joy has turned into despair, and the fear threatens to choke me. My fresh start has leapt overboard and flails in the sea, choking on salty water.
A desperate sound escapes my throat. Robbie quickly comes to my side, whispering, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “I’m just seeing things. Or maybe I’m seasick.” I grip the railing but continue staring toward the stern, and my knees weaken.
“You look distressed, Othella,” Katherine says. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”
I wrestle with fear, especially because I don’t trust what Isee. The thrill of escaping my past has dwindled to the size of a crumb from stale bread. Jerry Merriweather stands above the crowd. How did he get on board?
“He’s here. The man who attacked me at the Abbotts’ mansion.”
“I don’t think so, Othella. How could he be?” Vivian Jean squints in the direction I’m pointing.
“He followed us. I’m sure it’s him.”
Robbie leans forward. “I think I see who you mean, the big guy.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “You really see him?”
Robbie nods and turns to the others. “It’s been a tough morning. I believe she’s worn out.” He gently squeezes my arm.
“Don’t worry,” Vivian Jean says. “Tully will talk to the captain to find out about any last-minute passenger reservations besides the four of us.”
“I hate to make a fuss,” I say.
“It’s no trouble,” Tully replies. “I’ll talk to the captain and ask him to check the manifest to set your minds at ease.”
CHAPTER 15
ZINZI
Trench Town, Kingston
Thoughts of my mother and her beliefs come to me. The rituals, the herbs, and the secrets she keeps in the cloth pouch in the basket by the hearth. I never know when I will feel the pull of her words. They are simply with me—a figure at my side, looming over me like her mysterious Rolling Calf, the fearsome creature that appears on the hillside, in the sugarcane fields, and near the silk cotton tree, a demonic, rolling ball of fire. The curse of the Rolling Calf brings calamity and torment to anyone who crosses its path. Byron’s idea of stealing and publishing his family’s rum recipe might not strike some as demonic, but I am desperately uneasy at the thought of it. And for him to ask me to help only intensifies my concern.
The walk from King Street to Trench Town we make in silence. I am hopeful he has calmed enough to forget what he said, but I don’t want to leave him alone. “Byron, let’s grab a drink.”
He looks down, his eyes drifting past my face to my injured leg. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I weren’t.”
With a thankful sigh, I see the tension ease from his shoulders. “All right, I could use a whiskey.”
“Great. I know a place, mostly locals, and it’s open all night.”
He chuckles. “You always know the best spots for real Jamaicans.”
I pay his teasing tone no mind, for I’m just glad to hear it.
A mile from King Street, Trench Town is my neighborhood. Overcrowded and marked by poverty at every turn, it is home to Jamaica’s working class—the so-called less fortunate—compared to plantation owners, government officials, and the mixed-race wealthy. It is also the liveliest and most fun-loving community in Kingston. Despite broken hearts and empty wallets, it remains vibrant, sweaty, and electric. The rhythms of mento and jazz fill the air beneath gas lamps and moonlight.
In my neighborhood, laughter and love strengthens the bonds of community. They don’t tear them apart.
Trench Town is famous for its all-night lawn parties, rum shops, mento bands, and endless dancing and singing. The festivities never stop.
Byron and I arrive at a backyard lawn party and are instantly swept up in the excitement.
