I opened my eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “I did. Let this nigga play in my face too long. Let Gillian play in my face too long. I knew my mama was lying,” I said. “I knew she was hiding shit. I knew she wasn’t right. And I still let Farrah breathe the same fucking air as her.”
Silence.
Ajani spoke softly. “We gon’ track them. We gon’ find Trell.”
“Yeah, and I’m gon’ kill him.”
Even my voice sounded strange to me. But I was focused. Farrah was the one studying forensic psychology, but I knew a little from living the life. Predators get sloppy when they think they’ve won.
Trell thought he won.
Good. Because I was about to show him what losing felt like.
Seth placed a hand on my back. “Khi. Bruh. Listen to me. We gon’ find her. We gon’ bring her back. Don’t lose your head.”
I turned to him slowly.
“My head is the only part of me that ain’t gone right now. Because my heart, my soul? They’re in the hands of that lunatic.”
I pointed to Steel and Jarell. “Go home. Get checked. Don’t come back til I say.”
I turned to Ajani. I respected this man, knew he didn’t usually take orders. But for his blood, he would. “Get Prime on the phone. I want every camera, every tracker, every drone ready in the next ten minutes. Eyes on all those locations Black told us about.”
He nodded and walked out.
“What you need from me?” Seth asked quietly.
“Tell me you riding,” I said.
It was a simple request. He didn’t hesitate.
“Nigga, I’m already in the car.”
I nodded before walking back outside, surrounded by the humid air. Somewhere, Farrah was scared. She could be hurt. Probably felt alone.
But not for long. I would burn this whole fucking state down before I let anything happen to her.
I didn’t remember choosing one of my cars. I didn’t remember driving. I didn’t remember hitting the gate code or slamming the door behind me when I walked into my mother’s home.
All I remembered was that Farrah was gone, with a man who caused women’s disappearances.
Over and over.
My mother was in the kitchen when I found her. She was standing at the counter slicing lemons, probably about to make her nightly lemon drop. She was humming some old Luther song she used to play on Saturday mornings when she cleaned the house. It was almost peaceful. She was acting like she hadn’t stabbed me in the back, again. Somehow, she didn’t hear me come in.
“Where is she?”
The knife slipped. Lemon juice splattered across the cutting board. Slowly, she turned.
“Mekhi,” she said, forcing a smile. “You scared me, baby. I wasn’t expecting?—”
“Where,” I repeated, stepping closer, “is Farrah?”
She moved away, backing against a wall. Her eyes flashed. It was just a second, but it was there. Fear. Guilt. Resolve. I saw it all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said lightly.
“Don’t lie,” I said, the calm of my voice not matching my feelings.
