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“This is the craziest day of my . . . of my . . .” In another world, I’d complete the sentence as “this is the craziest day of mylife,” but it’s not.
Thirteen months ago
I grew up in a two-bedroom brownstone in Harlem. Just shy of twenty-two, I had a bottle of wine from the corner liquor store, in one hand to celebrate the painting of a magnolia I’d drawn, which was in the other. The painting had led me to a new major. One I looked forward to fulfilling.
Momma would harp about my constant changes. In the end, I would show her the business courses I took. I would explain that my short stint as an art history major and all the other majors could prove beneficial.
Pushing my key into the latch, I prepared to turn the knob, but the door slid open. I thought nothing of it. Momma often forgot to lock up after a trip to the grocery store.
“Momma, I’ve got the Moscato d’Asti. Your fave.” I stepped into the apartment, pulling off my crossbody purse.
Smiling at the thought of Mom-and-me time since Dad was away at a health convention, I flipped on the lights. “Sheesh, I hate daylight savings, but why is it so dark in here?”
The smile disintegrated.
My life imploded.
Knees surrendered to gravity, I hit the floor as a sob escaped my lips. I crawled frantically to my mom’s body, pierced with stab wounds and soaked in blood.
As I neared her, the stench of death brought bile hurling from the pit of my stomach. I choked the sourness back down. Mom’s blouse was saturated in blood.
Was it the blue one?
The blue one had the same ruffles.
The white and black striped blouse had the same gatherings too. I touched her once beautiful warm, brown skin.
“Mom, Momma, please.” I held her close as every thought escaped me.
I cried. My brain began to throb against my skull. There was no turning back time. I called the cops, and Detective Caruso promised my heart would one day begin to beat again.
Ican’t stop thinking of Gina. Before Victor, Momma only made a debut in my psyche when I took flowers to Dad; otherwise, she didn’t exist, or she was justGina—a woman killed in her home then dismissed by the police. It had become my ritual to help me cope. When Victor listened, I reclaimed my emotional attachment to Momma. However, Caruso’s appearance had just taken Momma from me again. I need her to cease to exist. So, I bring Gina back. I have to cope somehow to make it through this.
Detective Caruso’s head tilts. He appears to have been asking me something. “Luxury? Luxury? Lux . . .”
“As I’ve said before,” I robotically reply, “Sidorov was a stranger. Never heard of him.”
“Listen, Luxury, Watts did not shoot Sidorov. Once ballistics returns, it will set the foundation for what I already know.”
“But Deon—”
“We had a few hits on Sidorov around the States. Interpol also wants him. If this had been any bum off the street coming into rob Urban Gardens, I wouldn’t be asking so many questions.”
“You keep asking me the same thing, though. I never met Sidorov in my life. You can’t cross a man like him without recalling it. The second he arrived, I felt odd.” I shrug. “What else can I say about this man? You’ve asked me question after question. Have I done something wrong? Do you think I—”
“No, Miss Whitson. The trajectory of blood on your face and clothing indicates that you weren’t the shooter either. Accusing you wasn’t my intention. As I said, any other perp and case closed.” Caruso almost winces at that inference. “Deon had an unregistered gun. But as far as our lengthy conversation goes, it’s to sort out Sidorov’s sordid past. So, I will keep in touch.”
Legs shaky, it takes all my strength to stand. “Sure you will.” I bite my lip. I hadn’t meant to appear so sardonic. Yes, I expect Caruso to keep in touch. But after a year of my mom being gone, the detective won’t be communicating with me for closure. Still, I soften my approach. “Thank you for the coffee.”
He nods. “If you think of anything. If you feel like you’ve been watched in the past, let me know. We’ll want to piece together Sidorov’s time in the area, Miss Whitson.”
I nod and start out the door. There must be something the police aren’t telling me.
While a uniform cop escorts me into the lobby, I chew my lip, wondering who to reach out to. I can’t call Dad. Momma’s death broke him. He still isn’t the same. But I can’t be alone.
I dial Victor.
“Little One, I’ve been thinking of you.”
