Air wheezed through the straw. His chest started moving again. The purple faded to gray.
He was breathing. Barely. Through a straw sticking out of his throat like some fucked up science experiment.
I wiped my blade on his thawb and put it away.
“You’re gonna live.” I stood over him. “Because I want you to live. I want you to spend every day for the rest of your pathetic existence remembering this. Remembering what it feels like to be powerless. To have somebody else decide if you get to breathe.”
He made a wet gurgling sound. Couldn’t talk with a collapsed windpipe.
Good.
“And every time you look in the mirror and see that scar—every time you feel whatever tube they put in your throat—you remember why.” I leaned down close to his ear. “This was for Zainab. And for Zahara. The daughters you threw away. The blessings you didn’t deserve.”
I straightened up and headed for the door.
“One more thing.” I paused, looked back at him. “If you ever think about looking for them—if their names even cross your mind—I’ll come back. And next time, I won’t be this nice.”
He gurgled something. Blood and spit running down his chin.
I walked out through the store, stepping over the mess of broken jars and spilled products. At the front door, I flipped the sign back to OPEN and unlocked it.
Somebody would wander in eventually. Find him. Call 911. They’d rush him to a hospital, save his worthless life.
And he’d have to live with what I did to him.
Forever.
I stepped onto the sidewalk. Late morning sun hit my face. Baltimore air—exhaust, fried food, the faint salt of the harbor in the distance.
I took a breath, rolled my shoulders, and walked to my car.
Just another Monday.
9
ZAINAB
My feet was screaming at me like I owed them money by the time I clocked out of Grits.
Six whole hours of running back and forth, refilling coffee for folks who clearly didn’t understand how tipping worked, fake smiling at customers who absolutely did not deserve the energy it took to curve my lips upward. And don’t even get me started on the lady at Table 9 who sent her eggs back THREE times because they was “too eggy.” Ma’am. They’re EGGS. What did you expect them to taste like?
Cookie thanked me about seventeen hundred times before I finally grabbed my bag and made my escape, promising I’d be back for a few shifts later in the week. Part time—that was the plan Prime and I agreed on. Ease out slowly so nobody started connecting dots about Larry’s little disappearing act.
I pushed through the front door and the late afternoon sun hit my face like a warm hug from Jesus himself. After being trapped in that greasy diner breathing bacon fumes all day, the fresh air felt like a whole spiritual experience. I stretched my neck, rolled my shoulders, started looking around for my bus stop?—
And that’s when I peeped the black Bentayga sitting pretty at the curb.
Prime was behind the wheel, window down, watching me with those beautiful eyes that still made my stomach do somersaults no matter how many times I told it to get a grip. And in the backseat, I could see the top of Yusef’s head bent over his phone, thumbs flying, probably deep in some game or scrolling through TikTok videos he was gonna try to show me later whether I wanted to see them or not.
I walked over to the car, confused. “What are y’all doing here? I was gonna catch the bus.”
“You know damn well, your bus days are over,” Prime replied. “In fact, what kind of car do you want? I’ll get it the end of the week. I ain’t bothering to fix that hoopty that’s been sittin’ since before I met you.
Well okay then. I wasn’t about to argue with this man who wanted to give me the queen treatment. Scratch that, the Goddess treatment.
I walked around and slid into the passenger seat, dropping my bag at my feet with the heaviest sigh my body could produce. Lord have mercy, this leather felt like a cloud after standing on that concrete floor all day. I let my head fall back against the headrest and just existed for a second.
“Hey baby,” I called back to Yusef without opening my eyes.
