“I know you are, baby. I know.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Y’all were so close. He would’ve wanted you to be okay. You know that, right?”
Yusef nodded, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. Neither could Zainab.
The guilt in this hallway was suffocating.
“How’s the investigation going?” Zainab asked, and I heard the careful way she chose her words. “They got any leads?”
Brandi’s expression darkened. “Cops ain’t doing shit. You know how they are. Black boy gets killed in Southeast, they take they sweet time. File some paperwork. Ask a few questions. Then move on to something they actually care about.”
“I’m sorry, Brandi.”
“Don’t be.” Her voice hardened. “The mayor’s doing a press conference tonight. Talking about violence in the community, resources for families, all that political bullshit. But you know what? Maybe it’ll put some pressure on them. Make them actually do their jobs for once.”
My jaw tightened. The mayor. My mother. Of course she was gonna use this tragedy to boost her image. That was classic Vivica—never let a crisis go to waste.
“I hope you get justice,” Zainab said quietly. “I really do.”
Brandi looked at her for a long moment. Then at me. Then back at Zainab.
“Y’all be safe out there,” she finally said, stepping aside to let us pass.
“Take care of yourself, Brandi.” Zainab hugged her quickly, and then we were moving. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Out into the evening air.
Nobody spoke until we were in the car with the doors locked.
I started the engine, checking my mirrors before pulling away from the curb.
Brandi was still standing at the entrance, watching us go.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that shit was about to get a whole lot worse.
5
BRANDI
I hadn’t slept in six days.
Six days since they put my baby in the ground. Six days since I watched them lower that little casket into the earth and throw dirt on top of it like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t my whole world. Like I hadn’t spent twelve years sacrificing everything—my body, my time, my whole damn life—to give him a better shot than I had.
Six days, and I still couldn’t close my eyes without seeing his face.
The apartment was too quiet now. That was the part that fucked me up the most. Nigel was always making noise—playing that damn game too loud, banging around in the kitchen eating up everything that wasn’t nailed down, blasting that drill music that gave me a headache but I let him play anyway because at least he was home and not in the streets.
Used to cuss him out daily. “Boy, turn that shit DOWN. You trying to make me deaf? The neighbors gonna be knocking on my door and I ain’t got time for that!”
Now I’d give anything to hear it again. Would let him play that ignorant-ass music as loud as he wanted. Would let him eatevery damn thing in the fridge. Would let him do whatever he wanted if I could just have him back.
But I couldn’t. Because somebody took him from me. And nobody was doing a goddamn thing about it.
I sat on the couch in the dark, still wearing the same bonnet and house dress I’d had on for three days. Hadn’t showered. The dishes were piled up in the sink. Trash was overflowing. I couldn’t bring myself to care about none of it.
What was the point? My baby was gone. Nothing else mattered.
The cops had come by a few times. Asked their little questions. Wrote in their little notebooks. Gave me that look—the one that said they was sorry but also had better shit to do than worry about another dead Black boy in Southeast. To them, Nigel was just a statistic. Another case file to shove in a drawer and forget about.
I’d been blowing up Detective Morrison’s phone every single day since the funeral. Left messages. Sent texts. Showed up at the precinct twice. Got nothing but the runaround.
“We’re following up on some leads, Ms. Thompson.”
