Brandi’s mouth opened. Then closed. I could see her thinking. Remembering.
“Come to think of it, right before Nigel was killed they had grown apart. Yusef was spending less and less time here. I thought it was because he was focusing on piano and hanging out with that new nigga Zahara got with.”
“Nah, that lil bitch got tired of being bullied. And that new nigga, sewed the seeds that led to him killing our son. Probably got in that lil bitch’s ear, talkin shit about how he handled his bully. That shit put a fire under Yusef.”
Brandi sank onto the couch like her legs couldn’t hold her no more. “Oh my God.”
“When’s the last time you seen them? Zahara and the boy?”
“The funeral. They bounced right after, remember?” She shook her head. “I ain’t seen them since. They haven’t been back to the apartment. I haven’t seen them around since right before the funeral.”
I started pacing again. “I need to get in that apartment. Really search it. If the boy did this, there might be evidence. The gun. Bullet casings. Something.”
“Kick that fuckin’ door in.” Brandi was on her feet now, that dead look in her eyes replaced by something alive. Something hungry. “Let’s go.”
Together we marched down the hall toward Zahara’s apartment, my boots heavy on the thin carpet, that rage I’d been holding back finally rising to the surface. Brandi was right behind me, breathing hard, fists clenched at her sides like she was ready to fight whoever was on the other side.
We stopped at the door and took one step back, lifted my boot, and drove it straight into that cheap-ass wood right next to the lock.
The frame splintered. The door flew open, crashing against the wall inside.
And I stepped through like death itself coming to collect.
The apartment still had furniture.Dishes in the sink. Pictures on the walls. But something was off. The energy was wrong. Like the life had been sucked out of the place even though the stuff remained.
“They ain’t been here in a minute,” Brandi said, running her finger across the kitchen counter and checking the dust. “But they didn’t move out. Just… left.”
I moved through the space carefully, checking every room, every closet, every cabinet. The fridge still had some food in it. The bathroom had toothbrushes in the holder, towels on the rack. But the bedroom closets told a different story.
Clothes missing. Gaps on the hangers. Dresser drawers half empty.
“They grabbed what they needed and bounced,” I said, standing in what must have been Yusef’s room. His bed was still made. Posters still on the walls—some piano player I ain’t recognize and a few video game characters. But his closet was damn near bare. “Left everything else behind.”
“Like they was running from something,” Brandi said quietly.
Or hiding something.
I kept searching. The bathroom. The hallway closet. Under the sinks. Behind the toilet tank. All the places people hid shit when they had something to hide.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I was about to give up when I checked the bedroom closet of Zahara one more time. Got down on my hands and knees and ran my hand along the floor, feeling in the dark corners where the light didn’t reach.
My fingers touched something small and cold.
I picked it up and held it to the light coming through the window.
A bullet. Nine millimeter from the looks of it. Same caliber that killed my son.
“Brandi.” My voice was steady even though my heart was pounding. “Come here.”
She appeared in the doorway. “What?”
I held up the bullet. “They took the gun. But they missed this.”
She stared at it. Then at me. “Is that?—”
“Same caliber that killed Nigel. Found it right here in the closet.” I stood up, rolling the bullet between my fingers. “This ain’t enough for the cops. But it’s enough for me.”
