That’s why I couldn’t understand what the fuck she wanted from me. That bitch should’ve been over me. She had plenty of time to let go.
I raced back into the garage keeping my eyes peeled for her but she was nowhere to be found. I ran around to every car, peering through the windows like a maniac, but she was gone.
Once I accepted that she wasn’t hiding in any of the vehicles I sank back into my front seat. This was about to be the death of my friendship with Mekhi and Zeph because I was killing their sister.
And I felt for Zeph, I truly did. I had no qualms about handling Mega but I had to look out for that lil nigga Bryce. Why the fuck did Mehar’s brother have to be involved with Mega of all people? And only because he was Mehar’s brother was I willing to protect him. It helps that he wasn’t even at the casino. But that nigga did rob me and set my warehouse on fire. He was definitely going to have to pay for that.
But first things first, Mehar. I could not rest until she was back safe in my arms. And if I had to kill a bunch of muhfuckers, then so be it.
As I pulled away, I made the futile drive to Janelle’s place. There was no way she would’ve taken my girl and went back home. By now her brother had warned her that I was looking for her. That I knew.
If it weren’t for me finding that business card, I wouldn’t have known shit. But seeing the blood and the card, it was nothing to put two and two together. Janelle’s crazy jealous ass took her. How long had she been plotting this?
“Wsup,” Creed answered on the third ring. I knew that he had access to the kind of intel that would take me a little longer to get. I needed information ASAP.
“I need a favor.”
“A body?”
“Nah, I’mma handle the body. I just need some intel. This bitch, Janelle Black, kidnapped my girl. I need access to her accounts, her phone, and anything you can find. I need to see any buildings she may be renting or even own.”
“Janelle Black? Cool. I need a few more details like birthday and place.”
I gave him the necessary info and he responded with, “I’ll email you in an hour with everything I can find. Is she okay?”
“I doubt it. This bitch is insane.”
“Good luck. If you need help with any type of clean up… I know your brothers are there but you got more.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep you posted,” I replied.
Not too many things scared me. But Janelle’s crazy desperate ass, I didn’t trust what she would do to Mehar. She’d been holding this grudge so long. And it had all slipped beneath my radar. She’d been nothing to me for years.
I wished I had killed her ass then for letting me believe that baby was mine. I was there throughout her entire pregnancy, rubbing her belly and her feet. My excitement for that little boy was beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. And then he got sick. And I threw every dime that I could at healing him. I even stepped up to be a donor, which is when I found out he wasn’t mine.
The rage I felt was enough to make me kill her. Snap her in two with my bare hands. But her brother was my best friend, so I restrained myself and cut her off. That’s where I fucked up. I should’ve risked my friendships with Mekhi and Zephyr back then.
I pulled up to Janelle’s townhouse in Woodmore and sat outside for about thirty seconds. The lights were off. No car in the driveway. I wasn’t expecting her to be home but I wasn’t here for her. I was here for anything that could tell me where she’d taken Mehar.
The front door was locked with a key-coded lock. I kicked it in on the second try. The frame splintered and the door swung inward and I stepped inside without caring about the noise because Janelle’s neighbors could call whoever they wanted. By the time anyone showed up I’d be gone.
The place was neat and organized. Smelled like that tobacco and vanilla oil shit she used to burn when we were together. Some things don’t change. The living room had a gray sectional, bookshelves lined with therapy textbooks and self-help titles, framed degrees on the wall. A picture of her and Mekhi on the mantle. Another one of her and Zephyr at what looked like a graduation. No pictures of me. No pictures of Quindon. She’d scrubbed us from her walls the same way I’d scrubbed her from my life.
I started in the kitchen. Pulled open every drawer, every cabinet. Nothing. Moved to the living room and tossed the couch cushions, checked behind the bookshelves, went through the stack of mail on the console table. Bills, junk mail, a postcard from somebody’s vacation. Nothing useful.
The bedroom was next. I pulled her dresser drawers out one at a time and dumped them on the floor. Clothes, underwear, scarves, jewelry, nothing. The closet was full of blazers and slacks and heels, the uniform of a woman who spent her days looking professional while plotting something ugly. I checked shoe boxes, coat pockets, the shelf above the hanging rod. Nothing.
The nightstand had a lamp, a phone charger, a bottle of melatonin, and a leather journal.
I picked it up and flipped to the last entry. The handwriting was neat and slanted and I recognized it immediately because I used to read her grocery lists off the fridge and her little love notes she’d leave on my pillow. Some shit your heart never forgets even when your brain wants to.
I’ve been treating Mehar for months and she’s holding back so much about her life. I was shocked to find that she has a man locked in a cage. It looked like he’d been there for months. His legs were deformed and he was neglected. I paid a kid to place a tracker on her car while we were in session one day. That’s how I found the poor man. I could’ve just called the police, but he begged me not to. He said he wanted to help deal with her, so I came every night after she left and brought him extra food. She was so comfortable with her little routine that she never even watched the cameras. That’s what she gets for being caught slipping. With her out of the picture maybe I can convince Quest to get back with me. The truth is… well he never really knew the truth about Quindon.
I read it twice. Then a third time. Then I stood in that woman’s bedroom with the journal in my hands and felt something cold move through my chest that I hadn’t felt since the night a lab technician told me I wasn’t a match for my own son.
He never really knew the truth about Quindon.
What truth? I knew the baby wasn’t mine. I knew she lied. I knew he died. What else was there to know? What truth could possibly be left after fourteen years of carrying that loss?
