I picked up my glass and took a slow sip of water.
“I remember,” I said quietly.
Winston stared at me for a long moment.
Then he picked up his fork and went back to eating.
Mama cleared her throat. “So, Alexis. Tell us about your research. Amai loves history.”
I didn’t.
But Alexis launched into an explanation about her current project—something about oral histories and community memory—and Mama nodded along like she understood every word.
I ate in silence.
The chicken was good.
The potatoes were creamy.
The rolls were soft and buttery.
And I tasted none of it.
All I could think about was Truth.
Sitting at Delphine’s kitchen table with a highlighter and a legal dictionary.
Signing a contract that would change her life.
Trusting me.
“Amai.”
I looked up.
Mama was watching me with that expression she always wore when she was about to say something she thought I needed to hear.
“Alexis was just telling us about a gallery opening next week,” she said. “I think you should go with her.”
Alexis smiled. “It’s a small exhibit. Local artists. Nothing fancy. But I think you’d enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I would,” I said.
“Then it’s settled.” Mama beamed. “You’ll pick her up at seven.”
I didn’t agree.
But I didn’t argue either.
Because this was what Mama wanted.
A nice girl.
A respectable girl.
A girl who went to church and taught at universities and didn’t ask questions about the blood on my hands.
A girl who wasn’t Truth.
