I needed help. Needed someone. Needed?—
Prime.
My hand fumbled for my phone in my pocket. Pulled it out with shaking fingers. Found his contact.
Hit call.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
“Zahara?” His voice, rough with sleep. “Baby, it’s one in the morning. You okay?”
“Prime.” I couldn’t get enough air. Couldn’t breathe. “Prime, I need you. Please. I need you to come. Right now.”
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Grits. I’m at Grits and I—” My voice broke. Sobs tearing out of me. “Prime, I killed him. I killed Larry. There’s so much blood and he’s not moving and I don’t know what to do. Please. Please, you have to come. You have to?—”
“I’m on my way. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Don’t call anyone else. You hear me? I’m coming.”
The line went dead.
I sat there on the floor, staring at Larry’s body. At the blood still spreading. At the knife lying a few feet away.
At the evidence of everything I’d just done.
And I waited for Prime to come save me from myself.
28
PRIME
I broke every traffic law getting to Grits. Ran three red lights. Hit eighty on residential streets. Didn’t give a fuck about cops or cameras or anything except getting to her.
I killed him.
Those words kept replaying. Her voice broken. Terrified.
I screeched into the back lot, killed the engine, and was out the car before it fully stopped.
She was sitting on the floor when I burst through the door. Knees pulled to her chest. Blood on her hands. Staring at the body sprawled a few feet away.
Larry was faced down in a pool of his own blood. Still as death.
“Zahara.”
Her head snapped up. Eyes glassy. Distant. In shock.
I crossed to her, dropped down, and grabbed her face. “You hurt? He touch you?”
She shook her head but couldn’t speak.
I looked her over quick and was pissed to find that her jeans pulled down at the waist and her hoodie twisted.
The rage that hit me was volcanic.
I stood, walked over to Larry’s body, and kicked him in the ribs. Hard. The sound of my boot connecting with dead flesh echoed through the kitchen.
“Prime—”
