I’d been sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, trying not to think about the yellow tape still visible from my window. Trying not to think about Brandi’s screams. About Nigel’s body under that white sheet. About Yusef in the other room, carrying the weight of what he’d done.
Where had I gone wrong? Why hadn’t I hid the gun better? This was all my fault.
When the knock came, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
But it was just Prime. Standing in my doorway with that calm, steady presence that made me feel like maybe everything would be okay.
“Pack a bag,” he said, stepping inside. “You and Yusef. You’re staying with me tonight.”
“Prime, we can’t just?—”
“You can and you will.” His voice left no room for argument. “I’m not leaving y’all here. Not with police still crawling around the building. Not with… everything.”
He was right. I knew he was right. But leaving felt like running. Like admitting something happened.
“Where are we going?”
“My spot on the waterfront.” He looked down the hall toward Yusef’s room. “How’s he doing?”
“Calmer. But still scared.”
“That’s normal. Pack light. We can come back for more tomorrow.”
I didn’t argue. Just went to my room and threw clothes into a duffel bag. Toiletries. Phone charger. The essentials.
When I came out, Prime was in Yusef’s doorway, talking to him in a low voice. Yusef was nodding, his eyes still puffy from crying, but something in his posture had relaxed. Like Prime’s presence made him feel safe too.
We loaded into Prime’s car in silence. Yusef in the backseat, staring out the window. Me in the passenger seat, my mind racing.
As we pulled away from the building, I finally asked the question that had been burning in my chest.
“What did you do with the clothes? And the gun?”
Prime didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes on the road.
“The less you know, the better.”
He gave my thigh a tight squeeze that was reassuring and firm at the same time. I let it go. He was right. I didn’t need to know the details. I just needed to trust that he’d handled it.
And I did trust him. More than I’d ever trusted anyone.
That was the terrifying part.
Prime’s penthouse was nothing like I expected.
When he said SW waterfront, I’d pictured something nice. Modern. Expensive.
I hadn’t pictured this.
Two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Potomac. The city lights sparkling across the water like diamonds scattered on black velvet. Open floor plan with polished concrete floors, a kitchen with black marble countertops and brass fixtures, furniture that was clearly custom—cognac leather sectionals, a massive walnut dining table, everything masculine but warm.
What caught my attention were the personal touches. A framed photo on a floating shelf of Prime with his brothers, all of them younger, laughing at something off-camera. I was tickled by his chubby frame. He was such a cutie but I could understand why he was insecure. A worn boxing glove mounted in a shadow box. A shelf of vinyl records near an expensive turntable, mostly R&B and soul from what I could see. There was D’Angelo, Maxwell, Jill Scott, Stevie Wonder and many more.
This wasn’t just a rich man’s apartment. This was Prime’s home. His sanctuary.
“Just got it furnished,” Prime said, watching my reaction. “Farah helped coordinate everything.”
Something flickered in my chest at her name, but I pushed it down. Tonight wasn’t about her.
