“You can. But you’re not. So, what is it?”
I gripped the steering wheel. This was the problem with Amai—he didn’t do small talk. Didn’t do the social dance that normal people did. He cut straight through to the truth, and if you weren’t ready with one, he knew it.
“I’m just saying, we should grab dinner or something. It’s been a minute.”
“Mm-hmm.” He wasn’t buying it. “I got plans tonight.”
“With who?”
“That’s not your business.”
The line went dead in my ear. Not hung up—just dead. Like he’d put the phone down and walked away while I was still talking.
I sat there for a moment, listening to the dial tone, then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
Amai was out. That was all I needed to know.
I headed toward the Garden District.
Syx answered the door in a tank top and basketball shorts, controller in one hand, a blunt behind his ear. He barely glanced at me before turning back to the TV.
“Yo, what’s good?” he said, but he wasn’t really asking. His eyes were already back on the screen, fingers moving rapid-fire across the controller. “Amai’s not here.”
“I know. I’m looking for you, actually.”
That was a lie. But Syx was too locked in on his game to care.
“Aight, well, I’m in the middle of something,” he said, his voice tight with concentration. “Yo, fuck you, nigga! That was bullshit! That was straight bullshit!”
He was talking to the TV now, not to me. Some dude on the other end of his headset had apparently just done something that violated the laws of the game.
I walked further into the house, keeping my movements casual. Syx didn’t even look up. He was too busy screaming at his controller, too busy with whatever virtual war he was fighting to notice that I was moving toward the back of the house.
“Bro, you see that?” Syx called out, still not looking at me. “That nigga just—nah, nah, nah, I’m about to?—”
His voice faded as I moved down the hallway.
Amai’s office was extra just like his ass. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, mahogany desk, leather chairs, the kind of space that screamed HNIC. Everything in its place. Everything precise.
And there, sitting on top of the desk like it was waiting for me, was a manila folder.
I stopped moving.
My heart was suddenly loud in my chest.
The folder was thick—maybe an inch of papers inside. And on the tab, written in Amai’s precise handwriting, was a single name:
Truth Renois
I didn’t open it. Didn’t reach for it. Just stood there staring at it like it might bite me.
Behind me, Syx was still screaming at his game. Still too locked in to notice that I’d found exactly what I came looking for.
And now I had to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with it.
I glanced back toward the hallway. Syx’s voice was still loud, still cursing out whoever was on the other end of his headset. I had maybe five minutes before he got bored or suspicious.
I picked up the folder.
