Then, the true-crime vultures came circling.
At seven a.m on a Monday, my phone rang while I was making Micah's school lunch. I put it on speaker.
“Alyssa Carter? I'm a producer with the Investigation Discovery channel,” a polished, clinical voice said through the receiver. “We're scheduling interviews for an episode ofWho the (Bleep) Did I Marry?focusing on the Malik Chambers embezzlement and homicide?—”
I hung up. Five years later, and the media still wouldn't let him stay buried. Because it had everything the shows feed on. A respectable banker, a double life, stolen millions, a wife betrayed, a bullet in his head and two in his mistress’ arm to tie it up. My ruin made good television. Micah's father made good television. To them it was anepisode.To us it was Monday, and then every Monday after.
“Mommy? Why do people always call to talk about my dad?” Micah asked from the kitchen table. He was seven, going on eight now, sharp and observant, the small crescent scar on his forehead catching the morning light.
“Because some people like sad stories,” I whispered, smoothing his hair. “But we don't have to listen.”
My phone buzzed again. I went to reject it, but saw Raschad’s name flash across the screen. My baby brother had retired from the NBA almost two years ago after discovering he had a son, Zhaire. He’d relocated to a small town in North Carolina called Lennox Falls, completely reinventing himself as a full-time father, a record producer at a Black-owned label called WadeHouse Records, and was currently planning his summer wedding to his fiancée, Simone.
“Lyss,” Raschad’s voice came through. “I’ve got an idea, and you’re not allowed to say no until I’m finished.”
“Good morning to you too, Raschad,” I sighed, leaning against the counter.
“Zhaire won’t stop asking about Micah. Let him spend the summer down here. He and Zhaire are pretty much the same age, they’d be inseparable. And you’d get a break.”
“Raschad, I don’t need?—”
“Not a break from him,” he said quickly. “A break from everything else.From true-crime producers calling your house. From people going quiet when you walk into the grocery store. From living where every single thing reminds you of what you’ve gone through.”
"You could visit whenever you want," Raschad continued. "Stay for weekends. Hell, stay for the whole summer if you feel like it. We've got plenty of space, and privacy.”
I knew what this was. My brother, who'd tried to save me from financial ruin and gotten his pride bruised watching me lose everythingbecause I was too stubborn to let him help, was trying to help me through the back door. My knee-jerk thought was to decline. Then, I looked around my mother's cramped kitchen, listening to her upstairs slamming the linen closet doors in that rhythmic, disapproving cadence I’d come to despise. Then I pictured a country town, and a place where nobody knew my name or my dead husband’s crimes.
“Okay,” I agreed despite myself. “Yes. We'll come down.”
Three weeks later, I threw our suitcases in the trunk, handed Micah a cooler of snacks for the ride, and pointed my Honda Accord south toward North Carolina. As Jersey faded in my rearview mirror, I let out a breath. I was finally stepping out of the blast radius, ready for quiet, and for my son just be a little boy running around a safe field.
2/
ante up
THIS CHAPTER HAS A SOUNDTRACK
Ante Up Remix byM.O.P. |Ruff Ryders AnthembyDMX |Shook Ones by Mobb Deep | Paid in Fullby Eric B. & Rakim
julian
present day
I wasup at four-thirty to shower before my morning run. My brothers called it wasteful, saying I was going to sweat anyway so what was the point. The point was I don't start anything unclean.
M.O.P.'sAnte Upwas already rattling my speakers by the time I stepped out of my bathroom, the beat hitting raw and loud. The exact opposite of me in my pressed shirts and precise schedules. Maybe that was why I kept coming back to it. Some men needed quiet in the early hours. I needed something that shook off anything soft and reminded me what I was built for.
I brushed my teeth, moisturized and dressed for the trail: Nike Tech, black Vapormax, cologne anyway, out of habit, because I didn’t skip steps. The mirror in my room ran floor to ceiling, and I gave myself a once-over. Six-three, two-twenty-five. A low fade and a beard my barber kept sharply lined every week, because if you were going to wear a beard you kept it right or you shaved clean. I ran ten miles a day, six mornings a week, lifted four days, and it showed: big through my shoulders and chest, lean everywhere the miles burned it off.
The trail behind my house started with a half mile of gravel before it opened onto pavement. That first stretch was my warm-up, the crunch under my shoes reminding me to lock in. After that, it was nothing but miles of road, music in my ears, and the rhythm of my breathing.
DMX’sRuff Ryders Anthem.ThenShook Ones.ThenPaid in Full.Afterthat, a steady rotation of old-school hip-hop kept me hyped and focused mile after mile.
Running took my mind somewhere board meetings couldn’t follow, where your body is too occupied to be bothered by the thoughts that won’t quiet down otherwise. And I ran because the standard for me was maintenance and prevention. The discipline of never waiting for a problem to announce itself before I handled it. Annual bloodwork, a cardiologist whether my heart had given me a reason or not, every number tracked against the last. Bodies failed without warning. I’d learned that once, in a way I didn’t want to revisit. So I didn’t wait for mine to warn me.
By six forty-five, the miles were behind me, my lungs were burning clean, my muscles were loose, and I felt the day open up.
Back home, I got back in the shower, then stood in my closet scanning my suits. I pulled out a double-breasted navy fit with gold thread so fine you only saw it if you were close or it caught in good light. I slid a gold watch onto my wrist, stepped into my shoes, grabbed my wallet and keys, then stopped at the photograph that lived in my hallway. My parents on their wedding day, my mother in cream with me growing in her belly, looking at my father like he'd invented gravity. My father looking back at her like he was the luckiest man in the world and he knew it. I pressed two fingers to the glass, straightened my tie and left.
