Page 8

The truth was that I had been sitting on money the entire time. It was a mixture of Ryan’s money and some money from the things we pawned at MBs Auto. I hadn’t blown through it like everybody would’ve expected me to. I hadn’t bought a car, jewelry, clothes, or any of the other dumb shit that would’ve had people wondering how I suddenly came up. I kept it hidden underneath my bed because something had always told me not to touch it unless I absolutely had to.

I zipped the duffle and stood. I grabbed the backpack from the bed before taking one last look around my room. I had lived there long enough that I should’ve felt something about leaving without knowing when I would be back, but fear didn’t leave much room for anything else. All I could think about was getting out before somebody figured out too much. To be honest, shooting at that car wasn’t even in the plan. I had pulled up there to talk to my brother. I wanted to ask him one last time to stand beside me to handle all of this street shit. It was something that boiled in my blood when I saw that white car parked beside his. She was the problem between us for real. If Maliah had survived, there was no telling what came next.

If she hadn’t, there was still no telling what came next. I knew that Trigga wouldn’t take the shit lightly, and her damn daddy wouldn’t either.

My phone vibrated again from the living room. I didn’t even bother checking this time.

I slung the backpack over my shoulder, grabbed the duffle, and headed toward the front door. I had almost made it when I heard keys slide into the lock from the other side. My entire body went tense. The door opened before I could decide what to do. My mother walked in wearing her scrubs, looking exhausted from whatever kind of shift she’d just worked. Her purse hung from one shoulder while she kicked the door closed behind her. She was already talking before she even looked in my direction.

“Giovanni, what do you want for dinner? Because if you say anything that’s gonna have me in that kitchen for two hours, you can forget it. My feet are killing me and…”

She looked up, and instantly her sentence died. I stood there with the backpack hanging from my shoulder and the duffle gripped tightly in my hand.

For several seconds, she didn’t say anything. I was hoping that I could make my escape before she got home. Her eyes moved over the bags before slowly making their way back to my face. I knew I looked fucked up. Sweat covered my forehead, my heart was still beating too fast, and there wasn’t a believable explanation in the world for why I was standing by the front door packed like I was about to disappear. That’s because I was; she just didn’t know it yet.

“Giovanni?” she said so low that she was damn near whispering.

I swallowed. Her eyes narrowed as she studied me more closely.

“Why are you sweating like that? And why do you have those bags?”

I didn’t answer. She looked at the duffle again, then at the backpack.

The exhaustion disappeared from her face.

“Where are you going?”

Before I could come up with an answer, the reporter’s voice coming from the television pulled both of our attention toward the living room.

“Police are continuing their investigation into a shooting that occurred earlier this evening…”

My mother turned toward the television.

The same footage I’d been watching all day filled the screen again. Police lights flashed behind the reporter while yellow crime scene tape blocked off part of the complex. My mother’s face changed almost immediately.

“Wait a minute.”

She took a few steps closer to the television and started squinting at the screen.

“Isn’t that the complex where Tahari lives?”

I tightened my grip on the duffle.

“Oh, my God.”

Her hand flew to her chest as she listened to the reporter mention that someone had been transported to the hospital. She immediately reached inside her purse and started digging around. I knew what she was looking for before she pulled it out. It’s the motherly instinct in her that had her reaching for her phone.

“Don’t call him.”

I said in a low tone, and instantly she stopped. For a second, she remained facing the television with the phone in her hand. Then she slowly turned around and looked at me.

“What?”

“I said don’t call him. He wasn’t shot.”

Her eyebrows pulled together.

“How do you know that?”