But he’d stay close.Guilt demanded it.So did the spark in her eyes—one he’d protect, even if she fought him every step.
Chapter 3
Keisha parked at theedge of Calle Ocho’s night market.Cigar smoke, grilled corn, and spilled soda sweetened the humid air.Her watch read 8:35 p.m.She stepped into the sticky Miami night.
Fatigue dragged her limbs.She blinked, vision foggy at the edges, but pushed forward.
“Keisha!”
Tiana’s laugh sliced through the noise.By a sugar skull vendor, her mismatched polka dot socks flashed under rolled jeans.Keisha’s gaze swept the crowd.Old caseworker habits.Track exits and spot adults lingering too long near kids.
“You’re late,” Tiana said, clutching a horchata, ice clinking.“Thought you bailed.”
“Flagler traffic,” Keisha said, dodging the truth that she’d spent fifteen minutes in her car, wrestling with ethics over this off-books meeting.“School okay?”
Tiana rolled her eyes.“Mrs.Estevez thinks I’m cheating in calc.‘Foster kids don’t get A’s.’Whatever.”
Her indignation stung Keisha.Sixteen, already battered by the system’s biases.A memory of her foster sister, lost to those same failures, tightened her chest.She bought them elotes—corn slathered in mayo and cotija—and they walked, weaving through families.
“Those weird calls you mentioned,” Keisha said, casual.“What’s up with that?”
Tiana stiffened, biting her corn.“Mr.Rossi gets late-night calls.Locks his office door, talks low, then gets pissed.Last night, he mentioned ‘that Crawford woman asking questions.’That’s you, right?”
Keisha’s hand trembled, corn pausing midair.A faint aura flickered in her vision.She inhaled, steadying.“Names?Companies?”
“Coastal Futures, I think.Something about ‘prime candidates’—me and Miguel, ‘cause of our grades.”Tiana’s voice dropped.“Said we’re worth forty grand each.‘Clean files, no family complications.’”
Keisha stiffened.A man across the market caught her eye.Angular face, neck tattoo, watching them.Mikalai.The same face from the black sedan tailing her three days ago.
“You okay?”Tiana studied her.“You look off.”
“I’m good.”Keisha forced a bite, chewing slowly.“How often are these calls?”
“Every few days.After Mrs.Rossi’s asleep.”Tiana sipped her horchata.“They’re about money.‘Investments secure,’ that kinda thing.You checking my placement because of this?”
A tourist bumped Keisha, her corn hitting the pavement.The ground tilted...another warning.
