Page 118 of The Wright Man

The girl. The one they accused Kareem of trafficking, the one whose supposed disappearance helped put my brother behind bars for damn near a decade. She was alive. Not just alive—ready to talk. Ready to tell the truth. The real truth.

Apparently her father—the dealer Kareem and his boys had robbed that night—got himself killed. Street karma caught up to him, finally. With him gone, she didn't have a reason to hide anymore. She wanted to clear her name. Clear Kareem's too.

It didn't feel real. It still didn't. Even after hours of pacing my living room waiting for that collect call to come through, I was jittery, twitchy. Couldn't sit still, couldn't think straight. When Kareem's voice finally came on the line, I damn near shouted it into the receiver.

"We got her, Reem. She came forward. She's coming in to testify."

It got quiet for a second. Then I heard it—his smile. Not just in his voice, but in the little exhale of disbelief that cracked through the silence like thunder.

"Yo..." he said, all breathless. "You serious?"

"As a fucking heart attack. We're putting the paperwork together now."

"Shit." A beat. "Leek, we really might do this."

I closed my eyes and let the words sink in. "Yeah, bro. We really might."

After that call, I was vibrating.

So I leaned on the two things the Corps taught me to do when I didn't know what to do—clean and sweat it out.

The cleaning didn't take long. The house was already pretty squared away, but I still managed to hit the baseboards and reorganize the kitchen pantry like a damn HGTV host. I thought about going into Mama's room next—but nah. Not yet.

Kareem's room, though? That felt right.

I kept it simple. Threw away obvious trash, dusted off the dresser, straightened his sneakers under the bed. Found a couple things that made me smile—my old hoodie he swore he never stole, a picture of him and Tina dressed as zombie basketball players from Halloween back in the day, the "World's Best Brother" award I made him in Kindergarten that he never let me live down.

There was stuff I didn't touch. A lockbox I had the key to but couldn't bring myself to open. A shoebox in the back of the closet labeled "Leek and Reem Time Capsule" in his janky-ass 5th grade handwriting. I left that too. We'd open that together. When he was home.

And then I still had energy to burn. So—running.

Now, the sweat was pouring, lungs burning in a way that felt good, purifying. I was on my fifth mile and winding down when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Judge Judy Jr: Final witness prep scheduled. She's nervous but solid. Should hold up on the stand.

Judge Judy Jr: I'll send over the finalized affidavit draft tonight.

Judge Judy Jr: You breathing?

I laughed out loud, hands on my hips as I slowed to a walk two blocks from the house.

Me: Breathing. Barely.

Me: Out here putting miles on these Nikes like a man possessed.

Me: She still willing to go public?

Judge Judy Jr: She wants to do right by him.

Judge Judy Jr: Says she's been carrying this too long.

Judge Judy Jr: Might've even Googled you.

Me: She what now??

Me: Tell her to disregard the shirtless photos. I was in a dark place.

Me: Literally. Afghanistan.