“I knew nothing about this,” he insisted.
His shock wasn’t rehearsed. It was real. The confusion in his expression was genuine.
“I know.”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
The room went quiet for a second.
Then I added the sauce. “If she knew charges were coming, if she realized the pressure was closing in, she may have panicked and ran.”
His hands dropped from his face. “Ran?”
“It happens. People get scared to go to jail and find it easier to run, especially when they have the means to. I’m not surprised that she ran from your name being connected to this and blasted all over the news, federal time, public shame. Once that panic hits, people run fast and don’t think clearly.”
Langford looked down again at the papers. “She wouldn’t do that to me.”
“A frightened person doesn’t make decisions based on who they hurt. They make them based on survival.”
“She was scared,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me.
I agreed. “She most likely was.”
He looked up at me then, eyes redder than when he came in. “Sincere… if she ran, then I just need to know she’s okay. Ask Icon and Legend to please use whatever resources they have to find out where she is. I just want to know she’s okay.”
I held his gaze and nodded once. “We’ll do everything and anything we can to help.”
He closed his eyes for a second, relieved.
“But…” I folded my hands on the table. “In cases like these, if people don’t want to be found, they usually aren’t.”
Langford swallowed hard. Then he nodded like a man trying to accept something his spirit still wasn’t ready to. Watching him break in real time, all I could think was that the cover story didn’t work because it was clever. It worked because grief always reached for the version of the truth it could live with.
By the time I left the office, I was already running late for the cake-tasting appointment with Rhythm for the wedding.
Only Rhythm could have me hustling across the city for cake. But I needed the distraction. I had just spent the last hour sitting across from a father whose world was ending in real time, helping him swallow a lie I needed him to believe. Though I worked with the Cartiers, I had yet to grow as cold as they were. They could do this shit with no remorse for the sake of ensuring their family stayed free and safe. But my heart still went out to Langford because I knew his daughter was rotting in concrete on 83rd Street.
So, by the time I slid behind the wheel and headed toward Bronzeville, I was more than ready to talk about flavors and frosting types.
The bakery was on a corner lined with old brownstones. There was gold lettering on the window: Monet & Crumbs. It was Black-owned by Chef Nia Carter, one of the best Black bakers in the city, according to half of Chicago and definitely according to Rhythm.
I found parking quicker than I expected and headed inside. The smell of butter, sugar, vanilla, and something caramelizing in the back hit me as soon as I opened the door.
Rhythm was already inside at a small private tasting table in the back, looking beautiful with her iPad, a notebook, and those lines in her forehead she has had since we started planning for the wedding that would be in May.
Rhythm’s locs were falling over one shoulder, and the sweater set she had on embraced her curves in a way that made the whole bakery disappear for a second.
Because Rhythm was such a creative, she wasn’t the type to just point at a few flowers, approve a color palette, and let the wedding planner take it from there. She was hands-on with every detail, from the texture of the linens to the shape of the candle holders to how the lighting would hit the room once the sun went down. Watching her work that closely with theplanner was interesting because she approached the wedding the same way she approached a canvas. Nothing was random, and everything needed feeling, balance, intention, and beauty. She cared about how the room would flow, how the details would speak to each other, and how the whole night would feel, not just look. Watching her build our day with that same thoughtful, artistic mind of hers made me look forward to our wedding day even more.
She looked up when she heard me. “You’re late,” she said, but she was smiling.
“Barely.”
“Fifteen minutes is barely?”
I leaned down, kissed her mouth slowly, and pulled back just enough to look at her. “I’m sorry, love. You forgive me?”
Her smile deepened. “I guess.”
