Page 15 of The Wright Man

Bella snorted, nearly choking on a sip of her mimosa. "Not a forensic double tap."

"Exactly! CSI: Instagram. That bitch can have him, your honor."

I laughed. For real this time. That deep, belly kind. The kind that felt like a stretch after sitting too long in silence.

Eventually, the conversation moved on—Rico, work, who was bringing what to Daddy's birthday dinner next weekend.

But even as I leaned into the joy, a part of me stayed quiet. Watching. Waiting.

I knew Maleek was still sitting in the corner of my brain. Arms folded. Unbothered. Patient.

I was going to have to face him eventually… The question was—when, and as what?

But that was for another day.

For now I had biscuits, Black girl joy, and enough distraction to keep my heart from falling out of my chest.

And that was going to have to be enough.

Because honestly, Maleek and I didn't just drift. We detonated. And I still don't know who lit the match.

Chapter Three

Maleek

"...Yeah, yeah. I heard you."

I pulled into the driveway just as he launched into another lecture.

"You heard me, but you don't listen," my lawyer said, voice cutting through the car speakers like I'd accidentally hit a sharp edge. "You're acting like coming back is some little errand. Like it's just another check box on a list—"

"It is a check box," I muttered, shifting into park and letting the engine idle. "New chapter. New location. Same mission."

He made a sound like he wanted to slap the taste out of my mouth. "You're not a mission. You're a human being. I know recon trained that outta you, but I need you to remember before you end up folding in on yourself."

I smirked, leaning back into the seat. "You get this philosophical every time you miss your therapy appointment?"

"Don't get cute, Wright. You're not that charming."

I laughed, because I knew he didn't mean it. That was our rhythm now—this blend of blunt truth and brutal loyalty. Most people didn't talk to their lawyers like this. But most lawyers didn't text you every morning to check in, or send memes at 3AM, or call you just to say, "I know you're mad, but don't act stupid because of it."

We weren't just client and counsel. We were something else. Something solid. Brothers.

"I'm good," I said finally, more to myself than him.

"Keep saying it out loud," he replied, voice softening. "Even when you don't believe it yet."

I hung up before I could start feeling shit.

I sat in the driveway for a second, let the engine idle for a beat before cutting it. My hand hovered on the key. The house looked the same and different all at once.

The wind knocked a loose shutter against the siding in a slow, familiar rhythm. Paint was peeling. The porch light leaned like it'd seen some things and stopped giving a damn halfway through.

But it was still her house. Mama's house. Except now it was mine.

My hand flexed on the steering wheel. The skin across my knuckles was tight from old scars.

I left the bags. Just grabbed the keys and got out, boots hitting the ground with purpose. The air smelled like rain on warm dirt, like honeysuckle and fresh cut grass, with a hint of car exhaust. Maryland in June. Home.