“Oh thank the Lord!” She pulled me into a hug that was way too tight for 8 AM. “Girl, you are a lifesaver. A whole entire lifesaver. I don’t know what I would’ve done?—”
“It’s fine, Cookie. I got you.”
“Bless your heart.” She shoved an apron into my hands. “Section three. Coffee’s fresh, we’re almost out of the berry syrup, and Table 12 been waiting on their check for ten minutes. They look mad.”
“When don’t they look mad?”
“Facts.” She cracked a small smile. “Thank you, Zahara. For real.”
I tied the apron around my waist and got to work.
It was autopilot at this point. Two years of the same routine meant my body knew what to do even when my brain was somewhere else entirely. Pour coffee. Take orders. Smile at people who don’t smile back. Run food. Wipe tables. Refill drinks. Repeat.
But my head was a million miles away. Thinking about Prime. About Yusef sitting in that school, trying to act normal when nothing about his life was normal anymore. About Zoo and Meech and Rashid and all the threats circling us like sharks who smelled blood.
“You hear anything about Larry?”
Cookie’s voice yanked me back to reality. She was standing next to me at the coffee station, her face all pinched with worry.
“No,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Nothing. Why? Still no word?”
“Girl, nobody’s heard from that man in weeks. His car is gone. His apartment looks like he just up and left. Police came by asking questions but they ain’t got nothing.” She shook her head. “It don’t make sense. Say what you want about Larry—and Lord knows I got plenty to say—but he loved this diner. Wouldn’t just abandon it.”
I kept my face neutral. Nodded in the right places. “That’s wild. I hope he’s okay.”
“Me too.” She didn’t sound convinced. “His daughter Chantel is taking over for now. She’s coming by later to look at the books and figure out what’s next.” She sighed, heavy and tired. “I just pray he turns up soon. This whole thing got me stressed out.”
“I’m sure he will,” I said, because that’s what you say when you know damn well somebody is never coming back because your boyfriend disposed of his body after you killed him in self-defense. “Probably just needed to get away for a minute.”
“Maybe.” Cookie squeezed my arm. “Thanks again for coming in, Z. I appreciate you.”
She hurried off to deal with some drama at Table 7, and I stood there with the coffee pot in my hand, thinking about Larry’s body rotting wherever Prime put it.
I should’ve felt guilty.
I didn’t.
That man tried to rape me. He got what he deserved.
The bell over the door chimed and I looked up out of habit.
And my whole body went still.
Mehar.
My little sister was standing in the doorway looking around the diner until her eyes landed on me. She was still wearing hijab, still had that same delicate face, but she wasn’t twelve anymore. She was grown. A woman. Beautiful and serene, just like the last time she’d showed up here looking for me.
This girl was relentless.
The first time she walked into Grits a few months ago, I damn near had a panic attack. Hid in the back and made Cookie tell her I wasn’t working. The second time, I ducked out the service entrance like a whole coward before she could spot me. Both times, she’d left looking disappointed but not deterred.
And now here she was again. Third time’s a charm, I guess.
The last time I’d actually seen her before all that—like really seen her—she was twelve years old, standing in our father’s living room, tears streaming down her face while she watched me and Zahara get beaten and thrown out into the street. She couldn’t do nothing to help us. She was just a child herself, trapped in that house with that monster.
But she wasn’t a child anymore. And apparently, she wasn’t giving up.
She walked toward me, steps careful, like she was approaching a stray cat that might bolt at any second.
