Prentice would arrive soon. Would sit across from me with those ocean eyes I’d watched transform from fearful to cold to calculating over the years. Would make his case. Issue his demands. Perhaps even threaten me, if he’d truly lost all sense of proportion.
And I would listen. I would assess. I would determine whether the boy I’d raised had become a man worth negotiating with—or an obstacle that needed to be removed.
Either way, this would be an illuminating conversation.
The door opened. Footsteps approached.
I drew on my cigar and waited.
24
ZAINAB
The smell of turkey bacon and pancakes filled the beach house kitchen.
I moved through the motions on autopilot—flipping, seasoning, plating—the same way I’d done a thousand times at Grits. Cooking was the only thing keeping me sane right now. The only thing stopping me from crawling out of my skin with worry.
Prime had left two hours ago. Didn’t say where. Just kissed my forehead, told me to stay with Mehar, and disappeared into the gray December morning.
I hated not knowing. But I trusted him. Had to.
“Something smells amazing.”
Mehar shuffled into the kitchen, wrapped in one of Prime’s oversized robes. The swelling in her face had gone down overnight, but the bruises were darker now. Purple and black spreading across her cheekbone like spilled ink.
“Sit.” I gestured toward the breakfast bar. “Food’s almost ready.”
She eased onto the stool with a wince, still moving like everything hurt. Which it probably did.
I slid a plate in front of her—pancakes, turkey bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese. Real food. The kind of meal she probably hadn’t had in years, living with a man who controlled every aspect of her existence.
“Eat,” I said. “You need your strength.”
She picked up her fork, took a tentative bite, and her eyes fluttered closed. “Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“I forgot food could taste like this.” She took another bite, then another, eating like someone who’d been starving. Which, in a way, she had been.
I poured us both coffee and settled onto the stool beside her. For a few minutes, we just sat there in comfortable silence. Two sisters who’d been through hell, finally in the same room, finally safe.
“So.” Mehar set down her fork and looked at me with curious eyes. “This man of yours. The one with the mansion and the beach house and the fancy cars.”
“What about him?”
“How did you meet?”
I sipped my coffee, buying time. How much could I tell her? How much should I tell her?
“He came into Grits,”I lied. There was no way I could tell her the truth. He popped up in my house with a threat.
“And?”
“And he kept coming back. He was… persistent.”
“Persistent can be dangerous.”Mehar’s voice had gone quiet and serious. “Ahmad was persistent too. He pressured our father for marriage and now look at me.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Prime isn’t like that. He’s protective, not controlling. There’s a difference.”
