“Do you think Yuji Ono was behind the killings?” Win asked. “He said he wasn’t. And I think I believe him.”

“So was it Mickey? Or Fats? Or someone else entirely?”

“I think it was Mickey,” I said after a bit. “I haven’t heard from him since I got back to New York. And I imagine once I lost favor with Yuji Ono, Mickey might have thought he was avenging his father’s shooting by killing Leo.”

“You think the other shootings were just meant to scare, not kill?” “Yes,” I said.

“Nothing has happened since then,” Win said. “Maybe all of this is over.”

But it wasn’t over. If Leo was dead, I had to make someone pay. I furrowed my brow, and Win ironed it out with his fingers.

“I can read your mind right now, Annie. If you go after whoever you think killed Leo, they’ll come after you or Natty. It won’t ever end.”

“Win, if I don’t go after them, they’ll think I’m weak. Why shouldn’t they just come back at me and Natty to finish the job? I’ll be holding my breath forever. I don’t want to seem like a person who can be trifled with.”

“What if you said you had no interest in the chocolate business? What if you said you were going back to school and then to college to become a crime scene investigator and good luck to everyone else?”

“I wish I could…”

“Why? Why can’t you? I don’t understand.”

“Because … I’m a convict, Win. I have a record. I’ve missed tons of school. And no high school, let alone college, will want me. I’m stuck.”

“There’s one somewhere. We’ll find one. I can help you, Annie.” I shook my head.

“Okay, what if we just go somewhere where no one knows us? We take Natty and leave. We could change our names, dye our hair.”

I shook my head again. I had tried running and I didn’t want that kind of life for Win, for Natty, or for me.

“It’s more than that, Win. When I was in Mexico, something changed for me. I realized that I will never escape chocolate. And so there was no point in running away from it or even hating it anymore.”

“Dad’s always saying that it should never have become illegal in the first place.” “Really? Charles Delacroix says that?”

“All the time. Usually just before mentioning that it would be terribly convenient for him if I never saw you again.”

I laughed. “How is my old friend?” I asked.

“Dad? He’s awful. He’s completely depressed. He’s grown a beard. But who cares about him? Let’s talk about me. I’ve never been happier in my whole life that Dad lost an election.” Win paused to look at me. “You really sliced off that hit man’s hand with a machete?”

“I did.” I wondered if it had been a mistake to tell him that, if he would love me less, knowing how violent I could be. “I don’t regret it, Win. I don’t regret shooting my cousin when he shot you either.”

“My girl,” he said, just before he took me in his arms.

I offered to show him my machete, and he said he’d like to see it, so I led him into my bedroom. After Mr. Kipling had returned it to me, I’d hidden the machete between my mattress and the box spring.

“Close the door,” I told him.

“This is starting to feel like a trick,” he said.

“Now, turn off the light.”

On the final morning of my confinement, just as I was about to leave the apartment for tracker removal, I received a phone call from Mickey Balanchine.

“Annie, how are you?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to contact you, but I wanted you to know that I’m awfully sorry about what happened to you and Natty and especially Leo. Poor kid. It’s insane is what it is.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know whether I believed him.

“That’s not the reason I’m calling, however. I just wanted you to know that Yuri’s dead.” Mickey sniffled loudly. “I want to be able to tell you that Dad didn’t suffer much, but I don’t know. I just don’t know. This last year since the shooting has been horrific, Annie.

“Dad mentioned you not long before he passed. He said that you were a fine girl. I think he liked you better than me.” Mickey laughed weakly. “I think you reminded him of his little brother.”

He meant Daddy.

“I know … I know that things are strange right now, but it would mean a lot to everyone if you came to the service.”

I told him I would try and then I hung up the phone. Mickey did not sound as if he had just arranged for the murder of my brother. Then again, I did not sound like a girl who could slice off someone’s hand with a machete either.

But I had been that kind of girl, and if the situation called for it, I knew I could be again.

MR. KIPLING WAS MY DATE to the tracker-removal party at the East Ninety-Third Street police station. The police station had sentimental associations for me, as it was the same place I’d been detained after I’d been arrested for poisoning Gable Arsley. As for the tracker? Though it wasn’t supposed to be painful coming out, it was. The officer said I should go to a doctor to have it checked out in case it was infected. “These little buggers are supposed to be thrown away, but,” he apologized, “occasionally we do use them twice. Budget cuts, you know.”

As I was leaving, another police officer handed me a note:

Congratulations on your release. Please come see me at Rikers. I have information for you.

Fondly,

Your Cousin

I assumed it was Jacks, though—let’s face facts—I probably had more than one cousin in prison. Outside, the snow had melted, and the day felt positively tropical for the end of February in New York.

“So, now what?” Mr. Kipling asked me.

The prior evening, I had lain awake in my bed, thinking of the things I needed to do once I was free. The list was so long that I had to get up to write it on my slate:

Find a boarding school for Natty.

Find a school for me.

Find out who killed my brother and Imogen.

Avenge my brother’s death.

Figure out how to get my brother’s ashes from Japan.

Figure out what to do with my life post–high school (should I ever manage to graduate, that is).

Call Granja Mañana to see how Theo is doing (not from a traceable line, of course).

Get a haircut.

Go through Imogen’s things.

Buy birthday present for Win (Saturday market?).

But I didn’t want to do any of that just then. “Mr. Kipling,” I said, “would it be all right with you if we walked around for a while?”

We went the long way, going west to Fifth, which took us past Little Egypt. Little Egypt looked as decrepit as ever. “When I was a kid,” Mr. Kipling said, “I thought this was the coolest place in the world. I loved the mummies.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Everyone and everything went broke. And no one thought the mummies were worth saving, I guess.” Mr. Kipling paused. “And now it’s this idiotic nightclub.”

I knew it well.

In front of Little Egypt, I could already detect that there were more black market products being hawked out in the open than when Charles Delacroix had been acting as district attorney. I walked past a chocolate dealer. You wouldn’t have known chocolate was being sold, as there was no product in sight. The table was covered with a dark blue velvet cloth and approximately one hundred matryoshka dolls sat atop it. Everyone knew what matryoshka dolls meant. I walked over to the table. Mr. Kipling asked me if I was sure I wanted to do that. “What if someone is watching?”

We’d paid off Bertha Sinclair so I thought I was pretty much in the clear. “You have Balanchine Special Dark?” I asked the vendor.

The vendor nodded. He reached under the table and produced a single bar. I could tell from the wrapper that it wasn’t real. The colors were off, and the paper had an unappetizing, gritty matte finish. It was probably some cheap, 1 percent cacao chocolate in a counterfeit Balanchine wrapper. I bought the bar anyway. Ridiculously, the vendor wanted ten dollars for this knockoff.