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He sees his old boss from Distinguished, a guy way too old for his blond skater cut, who peppered every sentence with “bro”—at least when talking to Kwame—and always treated him like he was a scholarship student turning in a paper for a grade when Kwame submitted a story. How would it feel to stop by Ryan’s table on the way to the podium and say, “See how you underestimated me, you washed-up Patrick Radden Keefe wannabe?” But he’ll let the award and his speech do that.

When the time comes for him to take the stage, however, Kwame’s forgotten all about Ryan; he nearly blacks out from a heady combo of nerves and pride. He knows he is standing behind the podium, and the words of his carefully rehearsed speech are coming out of his mouth, but he doesn’t know how he got there or what he’s saying. Before he realizes it, tears are rolling down his cheeks as he talks about the inspiration for What’s Done in the Dark.

“When I started working on this story, I wanted to explore how Devon and I started out with the same lot in life and how his got completely thrown off course through no fault of his own. It could have just as easily been me, I knew that, and that’s really what the piece is about… Fate and luck and systemic racism. Did I plan to become a private detective? Did I think I would end up clearing Devon’s name? Not in the beginning. But as a journalist, you have to go where the story takes you. That’s the beauty of putting in the work. The story tells you what it’s going to be. I know that sounds a little woo-woo, but it’s true. When I had a chance to step up and make a difference in my friend’s actual life, like get him out of lockup—journalist or not, hell yeah that’s what I was going to do. Objectivity be damned. We have to care. If we can’t make a real difference, if our words, our reporting, aren’t going to lead to actual change, then what’s the point? What are we doing here?”

He’s shocked to see people rising to their feet and clapping, a full-fledged standing ovation. He can’t hear his own heart over the applause as he makes his way back to his seat, receiving several literal pats on the back as he does. “You sure got it, young blood,” Jackson says, pulling him into a legit bear hug as Kwame returns to the table.

“Got what?” Kwame says, swiping at the last remaining tear welling in the corner of his eye.

“That itch. Once you start fighting this kind of injustice, you never stop. You want more. It’s addictive. And you know what? I think I might just have your next story.”

“You do?”

“Sure as hell do. It’s one I pursued about fifty years ago. Didn’t go anywhere then and I always kicked myself for not pushing harder, but we were just trying to launch the paper when this happened and I had my hands full with that, scrambling with bare-bones staff and resources. I kept meaning to pick it back up and I never did. It’s always gnawed at me. I’ve always told myself I would go back to it. So this Black kid goes missing—just like, poof—days before he’s about to graduate from this elite white boarding school. Up and disappeared one night, and he sure as I’m here lookin’ at you didn’t just walk away. Least they found Emmett Till. No one ever found out what happened to this kid. People can’t get enough of cold cases these days, and you love gettin’ some justice. So maybe you want to look into it, see what you can find?”

“I don’t know… feels like a long shot after all these years?” Kwame doesn’t want to be disrespectful, but he inwardly groans at this man’s wild goose chase.

“Ahhh, you say long shot, I say challenge. And you strike me as the type to love one of those. Why don’t you just come on up to Milwaukee and take a look at my files. I can give you a tour of the offices. I’ll even throw in lunch. How’s Saturday?”

“This weekend?”

“No time like the present. You get to be my age, you realize that more and more.”

Jackson’s right, Kwame does like a challenge, so why the hell not. “I’ll be there.”

The adrenaline crash comes on hard and fast. By the time the event winds down and Kwame is making his way to his hotel a few blocks away, he’s struggling to name the feeling that’s washing over him. Until he finally lands on it… melancholy. And it’s Simone’s fault, he decides. For taking up all this space in his head.

Kwame can’t help but to think what it would have been like for him to have her by his side tonight, cheering him on, reveling in his success, standing by him in a slinky gown making every other man in the room jealous.

This was a bad habit, this whole game of what if Simone were here right now. At this event, at this wedding, on this trip, in this bed. She hasn’t been in his life for years, and yet somehow his mind just flat refuses to let go of an alternate scenario. He can’t accept the fact that he failed Simone, again and again, for no other reason than his own hardheadedness and fear. There’s a reason his dad always said, “Son, you sure have a lotta trouble getting out of your own way.” If only Kwame had the dubious comfort of blaming anyone but his own damn self here. If only time hadn’t run out for him to make this right. If only he could accept that, but here he is, having all kinds of ridiculous and wild fantasies about seeing her next week. He tells himself he’ll settle on rekindling a friendship with her, and he has just enough booze in him to pretend he’d be able to accept these crumbs.

He digs his key card out of his pocket in the lobby, formulating a plan to go upstairs to his room, strip to his boxers, and have one more drink from the minibar. But he quickly decides that’s dangerous in the mood he’s in, and a little pathetic. He’ll drink at the hotel bar like a grown-ass man who just got a prestigious award.

As soon as he slips into the bar, another plan occurs to him. Well, it actually occurs to him when a striking woman staring down a half-drained cosmo catches his eye from the other end of the room. The new plan is this woman. She’s not his usual type at all—she’s light-skinned and rail thin, on the shorter side. In other words, she doesn’t look anything like Simone, and that only adds to her appeal.

He orders a bourbon that comes his way so fast he’s almost convinced the bartender—a guy with shaggy blond hair—read his mind. Kwame takes a sip and a second to strategize. He has decent enough game; it helps that getting people to talk to him is something he does for a living, but he still pauses for a second to wonder if this woman is out of his league. It used to feel like everyone was, and he got by on charm. Now that he has some shine in certain circles, however, it seems to give him a little more pull. Like the ladies can smell it on him—Potential by Armani.

He raises his glass to the woman and she pats the barstool next to her, and it’s on. He slips next to her, and all he has to say is “I’m Kwame.” She takes it from there with a nonstop monologue that doesn’t require his participation whatsoever. She’s in town for business—pharmaceutical sales—is from Dallas, has a dog named Pelé, played volleyball at Morgan State, prefers mezcal over tequila, and has to have her wisdom teeth out next week. Kwame learns all of this in five minutes, though she skips right over mentioning her name.

After their second refill, and running out of patience to hear any more about her trip to Tulum, Kwame leans over and says, “Your room or mine?”

It’s a bold move and could have backfired, but this girl (he still doesn’t know her name) doesn’t bat an eye.

“Yours.”

He pays the check and they’re in an elevator in minutes. It’s almost too seamless. Sometimes you want to work a little harder for it, but Kwame will take what he can get. Who’s he to complain that the pussy is too easy?

As soon as they get to the room, the woman disappears into the bathroom to “freshen up.” Kwame’s always wondered what that involves. He pictures moist towelettes.

For his part, he gives his pits a sniff and grabs a mint from his workbag on the floor.

By the time the bathroom door opens, enough time has passed that Kwame is flooded with regret that there’s a woman in his room at all. A woman who has stripped to her black bra and lacy panties. He suddenly has no appetite for what’s about to go down, and that’s because he’s pissed off this woman isn’t Simone. It’s not this girl’s fault she doesn’t measure up, and he doesn’t want to give her some sort of complex by chasing her out of the room after she’s stripped down. Objectively, she’s fine as hell, sweet too, and clearly lonely in an endearing sort of way. So he bucks up, beckons her over to slip into the cool sheets beside him, and starts to do his thing.

He trusts this stranger will never know that he was thinking of another woman the entire time.

CHAPTER FOUR SIMONE

The plan was to get to the restaurant early, well before Kwame arrived, so she had time to regroup, stop in the bathroom for a once-over, take some deep breaths. But Langston’s bus was late, so Simone missed her train and had to get the next one. Now she rushes into the nondescript bistro Kwame suggested, twenty minutes past the time they were supposed to meet, and as harried as ever. The heels were a regrettable decision, but she couldn’t show up for a work panel in sneakers, let alone for lunch with her ex-boyfriend. These were occasions that called for three-inch patent stilettos.