The shit made my stomach twist. I’d never wanted this to be my whole life. I really didn’t want it now when I knew life could hold much better things. Luxury. Laughter. And a plush, ginger-haired, freckle-faced beauty who loved on you as fiercely as she talked shit to you.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, tapping my thumb against the edge of the table rhythmically, trying to keep myself steady.My mind wasn’t all the way here. It kept drifting back, seeing my mama at that table, lying to me, her eyes dropping every time I asked simple-ass questions.
I couldn’t lie. Every time I replayed the scene, it hurt. I couldn’t shake it.
The heavy metal door buzzed, dragging me back. A guard jerked his chin at me.
“You got fifteen minutes,” he muttered.
That’s all I needed.
I followed him down a short hall to Visitation. It had more of that bleach smell. Yeah, fifteen minutes was about all I could take of that. Medgar was already sitting at the steel table, hands folded like he’d been waiting on me for a long time. I meant longer than the last couple of days.
He looked different. Prison did that to you, I guessed. He looked thinner, wrinkled, solemn, like my uncle with the easy laugh was gone, and replaced with something quieter. But those eyes…
Dark. Watchful.
My father’s eyes.
My eyes.
He nodded at the chair in front of him. “Didn’t think I’d see you in here, nephew.”
“Didn’t think I’d need to come,” I said.
A wiry, gray eyebrow rose. “Something happened.”
I leaned forward. “Somebody’s been coming for me. And my… friend.”
Fifteen minutes? I didn’t have time to beat around the bush.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. He sat there, still as stone. I didn’t let him off the hook.
“There was a drive-by a couple weeks ago. Then somebody cornered her. Twice. Same dude both times.” I paused. “He callshimself Trell. Nigga said I should ask my mama why he after me.”
That did it. Something changed in his eyes, too fast for most people to catch, but not me. He dropped his gaze immediately, staring hard at his hands like answers were written on his palms.
“Never heard the name,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
“Mekhi—”
I cut him off. “She said he’s late twenties, maybe early thirties. He’s tall, dark-skinned with a birthmark over his eye and cheek.”
Everything in him stilled. He didn’t blink. Swear he didn’t breathe. Finally, he looked up at me and there was so much packed in that look—sorrow, worry, sadness, and the one that really struck me.
Guilt.
“Unc,” I said quietly. “Tell me why you look like you just seen a ghost.”
He rubbed his face with both hands, shaking his head like the motion could erase the truth.
“This ain’t the place, son.”
“I ain’t leaving til you tell me.”
“You don’t know what you asking for.”
