“And what does this number buy us?” Mr. Kipling asked. “Friendship, Mr. Kipling.”

“Specifically?”

“Friends have to trust each other, don’t they?” She began writing another note on a sheet of paper. “I never understood why paper fell out of fashion. It’s so convenient to destroy. Put something down digitally and it’s viewable by everyone and exists forever. Or at least it has the illusion of forever, but it’s always potentially mutable. People had so much more freedom when there was paper. But that’s neither here nor there.” She set her pen on her desk and handed the second note to me:

8 ds Liberty

30 ds house arrest

1 yr probation

1 yr surrender passport

I folded the paper in half before nodding my consent. Even if we were paying for it, this still seemed more than reasonable. I’d need to go to Japan at some point but I imagined that could be worked out later.

“After you’re released from Liberty, I will give a press conference where I say that I am prepared to let bygones be bygones. I will ridicule the way Charles Delacroix handled your situation—let me tell you, I’ll enjoy that part very much. And then, as far as I’m concerned, that will be the end of it. You’ll have your life back. And we’ll all be friends for life unless you do something to irritate me.”

I looked into Bertha Sinclair’s eyes. They were so brown they were almost black. It was tempting to say that her eyes were as black as her heart or some such nonsense, but I don’t believe that eye color is anything more than genetics. Still, there was no denying that the woman was corrupt. Daddy used to say that corrupt people were easy to deal with because they were consistent—you could, at the very least, count on them to be corrupt.

“I’ll have someone arrange with Mr. Kipling when you’ll return to Liberty,” Bertha Sinclair said as we stood to leave.

“I’d like to go now,” I heard myself say. Mr. Kipling stopped. “Anya, are you sure?”

“Yes, Mr. Kipling.” I had not been afraid of Liberty. I had been afraid of being left there indefinitely. The sooner I went back, the sooner I could get on with sorting the rest of my life out, and I had quite a bit of sorting to do. “If I go back now, I’ll be out in time for Imogen’s funeral.”

“I think that’s admirable,” Bertha Sinclair said. “I’ll escort you to Liberty myself if you’d like.” “The press will pick up the story if District Attorney Sinclair accompanies you,” Mr. Kipling warned me.

“Yes, that’s the idea,” Bertha Sinclair said, rolling her dark, dark eyes. “Anya Balanchine has surrendered herself to me and, a week later, I show her leniency. It’s a big, beautiful show, Mr. Kipling, and quite the coup de théâtre for my office, no?” She turned to me. “We’ll go from here.”

Mr. Kipling and I went to the lobby. When Bertha Sinclair was out of sight, I handed him my machete, which had still been attached to my (Simon Green’s) belt.

“ou brought this to the DA’s office?” Mr. Kipling was incredulous. “It’s lucky the city is too broke to fix those old metal detectors.”

“I forgot I had it,” I assured him. “Take care of it. It’s my favorite souvenir of Mexico.”

“Do you mind my asking if you’ve had opportunity to use this … Is it a machete?” He held it with two fingers, like it was a fouled diaper, before slipping it into his valise.

“Yes, Mr. Kipling. In Mexico, it’s what they use to remove the cacao pods from the trees.” “That’s all you used it for?”

“Mainly,” I told him. “Yes.”

“Anya Balanchine! Anya! Look over here! Anya, Anya, where have you been?” The crowd of paps waited to pounce on us at the Liberty Island Ferry.

I had been instructed by Bertha Sinclair not to say anything, but I couldn’t help turning my head. I was relieved to hear my name again. I was hustled into the boat, and Bertha Sinclair stopped to talk to the media.

Although she was a woman, Bertha Sinclair’s voice carried every bit as much as Charles Delacroix’s had, and from the boat, I could still hear her. “This afternoon, Anya Balanchine surrendered herself to me. I want it on the record that Ms. Balanchine’s surrender was completely voluntary. She’ll be detained at Liberty until we figure out what the best course of action is,” Bertha Sinclair boomed. “I’ll have an update for you all soon.”

It was my fourth time at Liberty in less than a year and a half. Mrs. Cobrawick was gone, replaced by Miss Harkness, who wore athletic shorts all day long and in all weathers it seemed. Miss Harkness had no interest in celebrity, by which I mean my infamy. This made her an improvement over Mrs. Cobrawick. Mouse had also left—I wondered if she had ever gone to see Simon Green—so I had a bunk to myself and no one to eat with in the cafeteria. The length of my stay was too short to bother with making new friends.

The Thursday before my scheduled release, I was sitting at a half-empty table in the back of the cafeteria when Rinko sat down across from me. Rinko was alone, and sans henchwomen, she looked smaller somehow.

“Anya Balanchine,” Rinko greeted me. “Mind if I join you?” 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.