She was Rashid’s daughter. Grew up in his world, around his people. Knew how to make calls, pull strings, move pieces on a board.
And she had every reason to want me to suffer.
I pulled onto the highway, mind racing.
Somebody snitched.
And when I found out who, wasn’t gon’ be enough left of them to identify.
5
FARAH
I used to be so in love with Prime Banks.
I remember the day my father brought him into my life. I was sixteen. Just got my license. Thought I knew everything about everything. Thought I was grown.
Then Daddy pulled up to the compound with HIM.
Prime was twenty. Fresh out of whatever hellhole my father had been training him in. Locs past his shoulders, body already cut like he’d been sculpted by God himself, and those EYES. Blue-gray like the ocean before a storm. Like something wild that couldn’t be tamed.
He walked into my father’s house and I swear my whole body caught fire.
“This is Prentice,” Daddy said. “He’ll be working closely with me from now on.”
Working closely. That meant he’d be around all the time. That meant I’d get to see him every day. That meant?—
I was done for. From that very first moment.
I started finding excuses to be wherever he was. If he was in Daddy’s study, I needed a book from that room. If he was in the kitchen, I was suddenly hungry. If he was training in the gym, Ihad to work out too—in the tightest leggings I owned, sports bra barely containing what my mama gave me.
He never looked. Not once.
But I didn’t give up. I COULDN’T. Something about him made me crazy in a way I’d never felt before. Like an itch under my skin that I couldn’t scratch. Like a fever that wouldn’t break no matter what I did.
I started leaving him notes. Slipping them under the guest house door when nobody was watching.
You looked good today. I made you brownies—they’re in the kitchen. Do you want to watch a movie with me sometime? I think about you all the time.
He never responded.
So I got bolder.
By seventeen, I was timing my whole life around his schedule. I knew what time he woke up (5 AM), what time he trained (5:30 to 7), what time he showered (7:15), what time he reported to Daddy (8 AM sharp). I knew which cars he drove on which days. Knew his coffee order (black, no sugar). Knew the playlist he worked out to because I hacked into his Spotify account.
I kept a notebook. A whole notebook dedicated to him. Every interaction we ever had—even the ones where he barely looked at me—I wrote them all down. Analyzed every word. Every glance. Every time his arm accidentally brushed against mine.
He said “excuse me” when he passed me in the hallway, but he touched my shoulder. He could’ve just walked around me. He CHOSE to touch me. That means something.
I was fucking delusional. I know that now.
But back then? Back then I thought I was fighting for my destiny.
By eighteen, I was desperate enough to try anything. I’d kiss his cheek at family dinners and he’d pull away like my lipsburned him. I’d text him at 2 AM—I can’t stop thinking about you. Come to my room. I’ll do anything you want. ANYTHING—and he’d leave me on read. I showed up at his apartment once in nothing but a trench coat and heels.
He closed the door in my face.
“You’re Rashid’s daughter,” he said through the wood. “That makes you off-limits. Forever.”
