“I know.” Her voice was shaky. Scared. “Vivica, I need you to come over. Please. Right now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t— I can’t talk about it on the phone. Just come. Please.”
She sounded terrified. Genuinely terrified.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she hadn’t betrayed me. Maybe she was just as scared as I was, caught up in something neither of us saw coming.
Or maybe this was a trap.
But I had to know. Had to look her in the eyes and see for myself.
“I’m on my way.”
29
ZAINAB
“His progress has been remarkable, Zainab. Truly.”
I shifted on the couch, trying to find a position that didn’t make my lower back scream. At eight months pregnant, there was no such thing as comfortable anymore. Just varying degrees of miserable.
“You think so?” I asked, pressing the phone closer to my ear.
“I know so.” Sloane’s voice was warm through the speaker. “When Yusef first came to me, he wouldn’t make eye contact. Wouldn’t speak. Barely acknowledged I was in the room. And now? He’s initiating conversations. Expressing his feelings. Asking for what he needs.” She paused. “That’s beyond progress. He’s had a breakthrough. I think you being home and has really helped.”
I felt my eyes sting. After everything that boy had been through —the killing, the kidnapping, the months of captivity, watching violence that would break most adults—hearing that he was healing meant more than I could put into words.
“I’m so proud of him,” I said softly.
“You should be proud of yourself, too. You’ve given him stability. Safety. A home where he feels loved enough to let hisguard down.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “That’s not nothing, Zainab. That’s everything.”
We talked for a few more minutes—she gave me some tips on how to keep encouraging his communication, reminded me that setbacks were normal and not to panic if he had a quiet day here and there. By the time we hung up, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
Maybe things were finally turning around.
“Auntie Z?”
I looked up to find Yusef standing in the doorway of the living room, watching me with those big brown eyes that always saw too much.
“Hey, baby. What’s up?”
“Your ankle.” He nodded toward my foot, propped up on a pillow. The skin around the monitor was swollen and angry-looking, the device digging into flesh that was already puffy from pregnancy. “It looks bad. You want some ice?”
I glanced down at it and sighed. The thing had been irritating me all day—itching, rubbing, making me hyperaware of its presence every time I moved. A constant reminder that I was a prisoner in my own home.
“Ice would be amazing. Thank you, baby.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and I heard him rummaging through the freezer. A minute later he was back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.
“We’re out of ice packs,” he said, kneeling down to place it gently against my ankle. “But Auntie Mehar said frozen vegetables work just as good.”
“She’s right.” I reached out and touched his face, my heart swelling. “When did you get so thoughtful?”
He shrugged, but I caught the hint of a smile. “I learned from you.”
Lord, this boy was going to make me cry.
