My lungs are empty.
“Alive and well, I see,” he says, grinning.
“How else could I be?”
“And still with that slippery tongue.” He chuckles. “Where’s my pocket watch?”
“Didn’t Jerry give it to you?”
“I ain’t seen that boy in almost two months. Far as I know, he might be dead.”
His remark is enough to freeze the blood in my veins. He knows Jerry’s dead. How he knows, I have no clue. “Maybe he is. Maybe he’s not. I haven’t seen him since Chicago.”
He sits in the chair beside me. “Girl, you’re lyin.’
“The only way you’d know I’m lyin’ is if you’ve seen Jerry and he told you otherwise.”
“Could be. Could be.” He laughs. “Let’s not discuss either of the Merriweather boys. They’ve served their purpose.”
Tony leans his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on my face. “You should be shaking in your boots. Why aren’t you scared? Or maybe that’s your problem—you’re not smart enough to be afraid.” He bites his lower lip, eyes still locked on me. “I love how you always look as pretty as a picture and just as clueless at the same time.” Scooting his chair, he closes the distance between us and adds, “You’re just a scared little girl pretending to be tough.” He retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. “A man fell overboard on the ship you took to Jamaica.”
Oh Christ.“Yeah, I heard there was a stowaway on theTalamanca.But I didn’t know him.”
“You sure? I was thinking it was Jerry who was the stowaway who drowned.”
My mouth dries. I force a confident smile despite the dread gnawing at my bones.
“Don’t look so glum, sugar,” Tony says, still grinning and showing off his sparkling white teeth that seem like fake pearls and diamonds. “I ordered you a gin and tonic. I bet you haven’t had one in a while.”
I gaze at my hands, delicate and slender fingers capable of creating beautiful drawings, digging holes in the earth, and examining insects and plant parts without causing harm—the skilled hands of the queen of the fingersmiths.
“No, thank you, Tony,” I respond. “I don’t need a gin and tonic, but I could use a smoke.”
CHAPTER 37
ZINZI
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Seven
Byron is late. I stand in the lobby of the Myrtle Bank Hotel, nursing a headache that has worsened since Othella and I left Accompong. My mother professes that the pressure from the waves and wind causes my pain. These headaches are a harbinger, a warning sign that a hurricane is approaching, and my body senses it. Changes in the wind, sunlight, clouds, and the violence of the sea course through my veins, rest on my skin, and sink into my bones. My mother describes my abilities dramatically, but they aren’t real. It’s a theory she has conjured. I wish she would stop telling these lies to the villagers. But Momma Hazel doesn’t care about me being stared at while the village waits for doom to fall from the sky.
When Byron arrives, I don’t ask questions like what took you so long. Instead, I hurriedly lead him to the veranda where Othella has company. It can only be Tony Schaefer sitting across from her at the table. He holds a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, blowing smoke rings into his unblinking eyes. I immediately think of a snake slithering through the grass.
Byron speaks first. “You’ve met Othella, I see.”
“That’s right. She’s a real doll.”
I don’t wait to be introduced. I extend my hand. “My name is Zinzi Green.”
“Tony Schaefer, sweetheart. Did you say your name was Zinzi or ZZ?”
He quickly makes me regret shaking his hand.
“You had it right the first time. It’s Zinzi.” I don’t bother to wait for him to invite me to sit. I’ve already decided I don’t like him, and so much so, I don’t feel up to faking politeness.
“Oh, okay,” he replies. “I was just talking to my old friend from Chicago. We go way back.”
“I’m not sure how far back that might be,” I say, “she’s nineteen.”
