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Then I noticed that Xavier was on the move again, prowling around the apartment. Looking for keys, apparently, which he immediately shoved into his pocket. Like he wasgoingsomewhere.
“Xavi,” I called. “Stop. She’s not there. How would she have even gotten the keys? Think, this isn’t reasonable.”
“Since they want you to give up your title, makes sense they’d remind you where you’re from,” Jagger put in. “It’s a joke, Xav. Nothing more.”
But Xavier was already grabbing his jacket, unwilling to listen to any of us now that he had been presented with something todo. “Well, there’s only one way to find out. I can’t just stay here anymore like a sitting fucking duck. I’m going to check for myself.”
TWENTY-NINE
When the Range Rover pulled up to the curb in front of the little brick building in Croydon, the night wasn’t exactly quiet. The sun had gone down long ago, and while some of the smaller restaurants had been closed up for the night, most of the street was still alive with the sights and sounds of people out with friends, utterly unaware of the crimes being committed in their presence.
It was flush with diversity—the variety of tiny restaurants alone told me plenty of immigrants lived here right alongside a more moneyed youth that could afford places like the minimalist boulangerie across the street. A center for troubled youth stood next to a day spa. Much like my neighborhoods back home, it was obviously coming up in the larger London ecosystem, but not so much that the business owners could afford to forego security shutters over their windows.
I might have looked around more curiously if I hadn’t been flush with fear and fury. This was, after all, the place where Xavier had been raised for the first sixteen years of his life. The building where his mother’s restaurant had been fit right in among the rows of little brick townhouses and apartment buildings, none of them reaching more than three or so stories high. Xavier’s family’s building was one of the smaller ones, constructed of worn red brick, currently housing a closed Nigerian restaurant on the bottom floor.
“Sure you want to do this?” Ben asked. “The police will be here in a few more minutes. I’d wait for them.”
But Xavier was already staring hard at the second-story window just above the restaurant. “That was Mum’s bedroom. No one lives there now. It’s empty. Just like I kept it.”
“Do you leave a light on when you aren’t there?” I wondered, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
Xavier stared even harder at the shine of yellow peeking through the blinds. “No. I don’t.” Then he turned to me. “I’m going up. Ces, stay here with Ben until the coppers arrive.”
It didn’t escape me the way, even within minutes of arriving in his old neighborhood, his south London accent had thickened considerably.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”
“Ces, no—”
“Yes,” I hissed, not wanting to shout in front of Ben. But I was feeling immovable too. “Xavi, that ismylittle girl up there. There isn’t an army in the world that could stop me from seeing her right now!”
Xavier just continued to shake his head. “It’s too dangerous, Ces. You need to stay here. You and the baby need to stay safe.”
“It’s my mom,” I argued, trying a different tack. “If she’s up there, maybe I can help, all right? Talk her out of whatever idiocy she’s into.”
He opened his mouth to argue again but shut it almost immediately. Apparently, he could see I meant what I said.
I followed him out of the car, then around to the side door of the building, which opened easily. We walked up a set of narrow stairs to another door above the restaurant.
Xavier paused. He looked like he wanted to say something. Then he shook his head, inserted his key into the lock, and opened the door.
“I don’twantto watch any more TV, and I don’t want any of that stinky food! I WANT MY MOMMY!”
“Sofia?” I called as relief flooded through me. I hadneverbeen so thrilled to hear the beginnings of an all-out tantrum. Honestly, if I hadn’t needed to see her safe, I might have let Sofia give whoever she was talking to what they deserved.
We stepped into a small sitting room that was, for lack of a better word, humble. Connected to a tiny kitchenette in one corner, it was barely large enough to contain a thread-bare plaid loveseat shoved against one wall, a few oak side tables that would have been at home during the late fifties, and a walnut stand that should have held a television. Faded, rose-colored carpet covered the floors, which were reasonably clean, if somewhat dusty. The walls were painted a dingy cream, including a few art prints hung here and there—one a poster of the Madonna with a Victoria and Albert logo at the bottom, another was a print that looked like Japanese block art.
This was where Xavier had grown up. I would have been entranced with every small detail had I not been completely focused on the theme song ofDaniel Tigerthat played behind a closed door across the room alongside the familiar shrieks of my five year old in the throes of an all-out tantrum.
“No, Sofia, please don’t go—”
“Mamamamamamamamamama!”
The door opened, and Sofia careened out of what looked like a bedroom and straight into my arms, allowing me to pick her up and swing her onto my hip. “Where have youbeen? Abuela said Elsie got sick at the airport and told her to bring me here to wait for you.”
“I—Elsie did get sick,” I told her as I hugged her more tightly than I ever had, trying to make the tears that were already welling up go away. By some miracle, she seemed mostly unaware of what was going on. All I wanted to do was get her out of there before anything else changed.
“Fucking hell,” Xavier said with relief as he threw his arms around both of us. “You’re safe. Are you all right? Did anyone hurt you?”
