My heart stopped.
I walked faster. Then I was running, grocery bags forgotten on the sidewalk, my lungs burning as I pushed through the crowd.
“What happened?” I grabbed the arm of a woman I recognized from the third floor. “What’s going on?”
Her face was pale. Shocked. “A little boy got shot. Right there behind the building. They found him maybe an hour ago.”
A little boy.
No.
No, no, no.
“Who?” My voice came out as a scream. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know, honey. They haven’t said.”
I pushed forward, shoving through bodies, not caring who I knocked aside. I had to see. Had to know.
Please God. Please. Not Yusef. Not my baby. Please.
I reached the yellow tape and a police officer held up his hand.
“Ma’am, you need to stay back.”
“My son,” I gasped. “My son lives here. I need to know if?—”
“Ma’am, I understand, but you need to stay behind the tape.”
“PLEASE.” Tears were streaming down my face. “Please, I need to know if it’s my son.”
Then I saw it.
Past the officer. Past the tape. Past the paramedics who were standing around instead of working, which meant there was nothing left to save.
A small body on the ground, covered by a white sheet.
But the sheet didn’t cover everything.
I could see the feet. The shoes.
Jordans. Brand new Jordans. Red and black. Those were Nigel’s shoes.
I’d seen them a few times. I remember when I first spotted them on his feet. It was at the farmers market.
The relief that it wasn’t Yusef hit me first—a wave so powerful my knees almost buckled.
Then the horror followed.
Nigel. That was Nigel under that sheet.
Brandi’s son. Yusef’s friend. The boy who’d helped me box cinnamon rolls and smiled when customers complimented them.
Dead.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no…”
A scream cut through the air.
