I wiped away a tear that slipped down my cheek. “I appreciate you checking on me. But I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I hung up before he could press any further. My phone buzzed in my hand.
(978) 555-4328
Call me when you’re done being a hard ass.
I’m not being a hard ass.
(978) 555-4328
Then let me up.
Bye, Fontaine.
I left the window and threw my phone on the couch. He could come up here if he really wanted to. He had a key to my apartment, just like I had one to his. But we both knew nothing good would come from that. We’d only fall back into our toxic cycle, and he’d end up hating me even more. I didn’t need to make things more of a mess than I already had.
When I walked into my parents’ house a few days later, Kenya was in the sitting room, playing the perfect grieving widow—dressed in a black Donna Karan pantsuit with her hair slicked into a low bun and two-karat diamond studs sparkling in her ears. Floral arrangements filled the room, and she sat with a few ladies from one of her social clubs.
I wish I could say I had fond memoriesfrom finally settling in Atlanta when I was sixteen. But pleasantries weren’t a thing with a father like Sterling Crawford. He ran our home like the military bases he was accustomed to—strict, cold, and no room for softness. He taught me how to shoot a gun at thirteen. By junior year, we’d moved on to sniping techniques and knife work.
“You need to know how to protect yourself,” he’d said.
Protect myself from who? We’d lived in quiet, upper-middle class neighborhoods surrounded by other military families. There was never any looming enemy creeping around the corner, no threats to be wary of. But he trained me like we were preparing for war—like the one summer he sent me to one of those boot camps for troubled teens “to build character”.
I wasn’t troubled. If anything, I was the opposite. He’d molded me into his perfect soldier that always did what was expected of me. I damn near graduated with a 4.0 average, but purposefully fell short ‘cause I had no interest in being valedictorian. I didn’t know them people, hadn’t grown up with them, and didn’t have more than surface level friendships with kids in my class. I did well enough to keep my parents off my back, but not enough to outshine my peers.
Sterling’s training didn’t stop after graduation. He allowed me to take some classes at the community college while he taught me how to blend in, disappear in crowds, read body language, and to take down a man twice my size. Every lesson and skill had a purpose. He was preparing me for something—I was just too naive to see it.
He’d left the Marines with a pristine record and highly decorated. After that, he told Kenya and me that he was picking up government contracts, sometimes overseas, which meant he could be gone for months at a time. She never asked questions because he kept a roof over our heads, bought hernice things, and always made sure we had everything we needed. It was easy to turn a blind eye when you were comfortable. And I was too young and aloof to realize my father was anything but a hardworking man doing right by his family.
I was twenty when he handed me a file with a name, location, and a choice.
The file was thin—a simple manila folder with a few sheets of paper. On top was a driver’s license photo with a name: Ronald Ford. I flipped through the details, committing each one to memory—his last known address, a photocopy of his passport, employment records, and a couple notes scribbled in Sterling’s handwriting. The man was nothing special, a Black man in his mid-to-late fifties with a receding hairline and tired eyes. He looked like someone you’d pass on the street without a second glance.
The notes said that Ronald had stolen sensitive files from a defense contractor and was shopping them to the highest bidder. Not the brightest idea for a man with top-secret clearance.
“You don’t have to kill him,” my father said. He sat across from me, his face unreadable as always, hands wrapped around his mug of black coffee. “You can walk away from this. I won’t think any less of you.”
I scoffed, holding his gaze as I ran my thumb over the edge of the folder. It was supposed to be a choice, but we both knew it wasn’t. If I said no, I’d be letting him down. Proving I wasn’t strong or disciplined enough. That I wasn’t as good as him.
I read that file until my eyes burned—memorized his routine, his driving route, where he stopped to get coffee.
And I agreed.
A few days later I found myself lying flat on the rooftop of the Emery Hotel, watching Ronald through the scope of a sniper rifle. He was coming out of a latelunch and was handing his valet ticket to the attendant. I had five minutes, tops, before his car was brought around.
I’d been up there for two hours, my rifle trained at the restaurant entrance the entire time. I popped my gum, steadying my breathing. I could do this. I’d hit targets from further distances. But this wasn’t a can 400 meters away.
This was a man. He was someone’s husband and father.
I closed my eyes, noted the wind, and prayed it wouldn’t mess with the bullet's trajectory. When I opened them, I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
Through the scope, I watched Ronald’s head snap back just as the valet pulled up with his car. His body crumpled to the pavement. I sat up and ignored the screams and chaos that ensued, moving quickly to break down my rifle. There was a narrow window before the police showed up and shut everything down. I slipped it into the case disguised as a tote bag and slung it over my shoulder.
I felt nothing as I went down the rooftop stairs and slipped through an emergency exit towards the elevators. By the time I reached the hotel lobby, no one gave me a second glance— they were too caught up with the commotion across the street.
