Page 89

he's not a murderer

he's toni

Three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again. Then:

LAYLA:

WHAT

HAKEEM:

he's toni sanchez

Hakeem closed the door behind him and walked into the dark.

Chapter Ten

Boomerang

LAYLA:

come over

RIGHT NOW

i'm not asking bitch !!

Hakeem was still standing on the sidewalk outside the house when the texts came through. The night air offered no relief. Los Angeles at this hour smelled like somebody's laundry exhaust and the faint musk of silk floss flowers that had bloomed too long without being cut. He could feel the front door behind him—the weight of it closing, the click of the latch, the specific sound of leaving a room where something had just ended. Or started. Or both.

HAKEEM:

on my way

He drove to Layla's apartment in North Hollywood with the windows down and the radio off. It was 11 p.m. in Los Angeles, and he had the freeway mostly to himself. It stretched open and dark in front of him, and he welcomed the void.

Layla met him at the door in sweatpants with what appeared to be a hastily made paper sign that said EMOTIONAL SUPPORT HUMAN. Her hair was in a ponytail with her bangs pulled back, and three black, star-shaped acne patches were scattered across her face. She had the look of someone who'd been ready for sleep before a text made it irrelevant.

She looked at Hakeem’s face.

"Get inside," she said forcefully and pointed at the door behind her.

Her apartment was warm and chaotic and distinctly Layla. Books covered most surfaces. A quilt that looked well-loved and borderline threadbare was draped over a wooden chair. A spiced candle was burning on the kitchen counter and filled the room with a fragrance Hakeem could tell was intended to comfort. Hakeem thought of his mother in Las Cruces and her Yankee Candle collection. He missed her deeply. The ache for home was just as profound. He wasn’t sure what home meant at that moment.

Layla’s place was the opposite of Antonio's room in every way. Nothing here had been curated. Nothing had been staged. Everything looked like it had been set down in a hurry and had since earned its place by being loved.

Hakeem sat on her couch, and she handed him a glass of water without asking if he wanted one.

"Okay," she said, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, ready for his testimony. "Tell me everything."

Hakeem looked at the carpet. "I accused him of plotting my murder."

Layla blinked. "You did what?"

"I laid out the evidence. The notebook, the birthday jokes, all of it. I stood in the living room and told him I thought he was planning to hurt me."

"And?"

"And he looked hurt in a way I didn't know he could be."