The sun was bright when I stepped outside. I pulled out my phone and texted Quest.
Me:It’s done. He’ll confess.
Quest:And if he doesn’t?
I thought about Dubz’s daughter sleeping peacefully in her bed. About his grandmother in that recliner.
Me:He will.
I got in my car and drove away from the prison, leaving Dwight White to make the only choice he could.
Zainab was going to be free.
And nobody was going to stop me from making that happen.
Nobody.
48
QUEST
Since Prime had his plate full, I decided to handle this next one by myself.
I can’t lie, it’s been good to be distracted with his war from my own shit. Camille tried to pass off another nigga’s baby as mine. Lyric turned out to be nothing but a pretty face and a maxed-out credit card. I helped take down my own mother and watched her do the perp walk on live television. It’s been a hell of a few months.
But my problems were small compared to what Prime was dealing with. So I put my shit on a shelf and showed up for my brother. That’s what Banks men do. We handle family first and fall apart on our own time.
Prime had Thad. He had Farah. He had Dubz. But the COs, the ones who let Zainab scream for seven hours while she gave birth on a concrete floor, those were mine.
Cooper’s apartment smelled like old pizza, stank-ass feet, and Febreze. Signs that he was single, lazy, and under the delusion that air freshener was a substitute for cleaning.
He was asleep when I let myself in. Deadbolt was a joke. Took me maybe forty seconds. I made myself comfortable at hiskitchen table, poured a glass of water from his Brita pitcher, and waited.
When his alarm went off at 5:15 AM, I heard him groan, shuffle to the bathroom, flush, run the sink for about four seconds—nasty ass barely washed his hands—and then pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.
He flipped the light on and froze.
“Morning, Daniel.”
He stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. “What the—who the FUCK?—”
“Sit down.”
“I’m calling the?—”
I set his own gun on the table. The one he kept in his nightstand drawer. Slid it toward myself, away from him.
“You’re not calling anybody. Sit down.”
He sat. Slowly. Eyes locked on the gun, then on me, then back on the gun. His chest was heaving, that thick neck flushing red. Still in his boxers and a stained undershirt. Very dignified.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.” I reached into my jacket and pulled out my phone. Swiped to the picture and turned it toward him. “You see these kids?”
Two newborns. Wrinkled. Scrunched-up faces. Eyes squeezed shut like the world was too bright and they weren’t impressed with any of it.
“They look like a pair of wrinkled tube socks, but I love them,” I said. “That’s my niece and nephew. Kheris and Idris. Beautiful names for some very funny-looking babies. They’ll grow into their looks. Hopefully.”
Cooper’s eyes darted between the phone and my face.
