The bathroom door closed. A moment later, I heard the shower turn on.
I moved fast.
Grabbed the gun from the bed and wiped it down with a shirt from my closet. Every inch. Every surface. Removing any trace of Yusef’s fingerprints.
Then I went to his room. Found the clothes he’d been wearing. Jeans. T-shirt. Jacket. Everything.
I took them to the kitchen, grabbed scissors, and started cutting. Reducing everything to small pieces. The fabric thatmight hold gunshot residue. The evidence that could send Yusef to prison.
My hands moved mechanically. Cut. Cut. Cut.
I couldn’t think about what I was doing. Couldn’t think about the fact that I was destroying evidence in a murder investigation. Couldn’t think about the boy lying dead behind my building or his mother screaming for him.
I could only think about Yusef. About keeping him safe. About making sure he didn’t spend the rest of his life behind bars for killing the person who’d been torturing him.
When the clothes were reduced to scraps, I stuffed them into a trash bag along with the scissors. Added the gun, still wrapped in my shirt.
I needed to get this out of the apartment. Out of the building. Somewhere it would never be found.
But I couldn’t do this alone.
I pulled out my phone. Found Prime’s number. Hit call.
He answered on the second ring.
“Zahara? What’s up?”
“I need you to come over.” My voice was steady even though my hands were shaking. “Right now.”
“What’s wrong? You sound?—”
“I can’t say on the phone. Just come. Please.”
A pause. “I’m on my way.”
The line went dead.
I stood in my kitchen surrounded by the remains of Yusef’s clothes, a gun in a trash bag at my feet, and the sound of the shower running down the hall.
Nigel was dead.
And the child I’d raised had killed him.
Now I had to figure out how to make sure we both survived what came next.
I needed my twin so I sent her a quick text.
Shit is hitting the fan. Yusef is in trouble.
37
PRIME
Vivica’s office at City Hall was exactly what you’d expect from a woman who cared more about appearances than substance.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the National Mall. Mahogany desk that probably cost more than most people’s cars. Photos on the wall of her shaking hands with every politician who mattered. And in the center of it all, the Mayor herself, sitting behind that desk like a queen on her throne.
I dropped the manila envelope in front of her.
