by Yasmin Angoe
Georgia said, “Cheese or the works?”
“The works.”
She tapped away at her phone. “That’s what I thought.”
There was a high-pitched yelp from the grill, Mack jumping backward as Cort yelled out, “God dammit!”
Mack doubled over in laughter. “We’re all right,” he called, waving a hand at Georgia and Nena. “Everything is under control. Except maybe Bax’s dignity.”
Defeated, Cort said, “Order me a meat lover’s.”
“Don’t forget the mozzarella sticks,” Mack wheezed. “And garlic knots.”
Thirty minutes later, the four of them were seated around the Baxters’ backyard wrought iron table, splitting two pizzas, the sides, and a pitcher of Country Time lemonade (a Georgia specialty) while the grill cooled in the background.
“I should take the grill back to the store. Something’s gotta be wrong with it,” Cort muttered, grabbing a third slice.
In Georgia’s cough Nena could swear she heard her mumble, Or with your grilling. Cort didn’t even notice because he was too busy glaring at Mack, who, at the same time, said very loudly, “Bullshit.”
Silence descended on them as they each replenished their paper plates with food. Nena couldn’t remember feeling as content with anyone other than her family as she did right now. She looked forward to Cort’s occasional texts asking how she was doing. Or Georgia’s flood of meme- and GIF-filled messages wanting to know when Nena was going to show her some of her fight moves.
“Shop talk?” Mack asked, breaking the silence. “Just for a second.”
Cort’s eyes flicked to Georgia, then back to Mack, before he gave in and pushed his plate away.
“Chill, Dad. I’ve seen The Wire.” Georgia propped her feet on the chair and pulled her phone and earbuds out. “Nothing scares me anymore.”
Cort’s nose flared at his daughter before he gave Mack his attention. “What is it?” He wiped his hands with a paper towel, then balled it up. Nena stilled, her ears perking while she appeared to remain semiclueless and only mildly interested.
Mack said, “You know about the day-spa homicide?”
Nena regulated her breathing. If Mack was bringing up Kwabena in this conversation, it wasn’t good.
“What about it?” Cort asked.
“The spa’s name is Lotus.” Mack gave Cort a meaningful look Nena couldn’t quite decipher. She looked back and forth between them. Georgia had her earbuds in and paid them no mind.
At first Cort was confused. He squinted at Mack, who kept looking at him, widening his eyes as if Cort should be picking up what he was clearly laying down.
“Lo-tus,” Mack enunciated.
It took another second for Cort to fully realize Mack’s meaning. Nena was mesmerized at how it dawned on him, the dots he had to be connecting in his mind to come up with, “The business card from the Cuban?”
Mack thudded a satisfied, beefy fist on the table. “Damn straight.”
“What is a lotus?” Nena asked, because if she didn’t speak, it would look weird.
Cort said, “Remember when I told you a little about the dead Cuban cartel member when you came for dinner a while back?”
She nodded. She knew a bit more than that.
“There was a business card in his room for a massage spa called the Lotus Flower.”
She nodded again.
“And,” Cort added meaningfully, “Dennis Smith was connected to the Cuban. Laundered money for him.”
She gave him a look as if to say, So what?
Mack chimed in. “There was a murder last week at this very spa. Someone killed the man who owned it and burned the place to the ground. The business card—”
Connects the three killings, Nena thought, her mouth drying. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that Cort might connect the pieces? Damn.
“Connects the three killings,” Cort said.
Mack said, “These three men, if we can prove it, had business ties with each other. We know the Cuban dealt with human trafficking. Smith was facing charges for racketeering. We now suspect the Lotus Flower was like a way station for funneling both money and maybe some of the people they trafficked, so whoever killed these three men did it as either a business play, a show of strength, or . . .”
“Or to settle a personal score,” Cort finished.
That would be why they were a federal prosecutor and lead detective. They were good at their jobs. And so was she. She absorbed their theories, easing back into a sense of calm. Still no mention of Paul or the Tribe.
She scanned the backyard, noting it was enclosed by a chain-link fence instead of the high privacy ones she had installed at her home. She felt too exposed out here. What if the Tribe was surveilling them, listening to Cort and Mack get too damn close to a member of Dispatch? If they decided that he was a clear threat to their cause, there was nothing Nena could do to stop them from sending a team to dispatch him, and her with him if she tried to stop it.
“But this is all just conjecture between two guys with overactive imaginations. We need proof, and we don’t have it.”
She nearly snorted. These “two guys” were spot on. It was all happening faster than she could think of new game plans. Her job wasn’t to plan these things, it was to carry them out, which was probably why she was making such a mess of everything. She wasn’t even sure when Paul would strike back for Kwabena, if he would.
“What’s for dessert, Bax?” Mack asked, switching topics. “That’s the most important meal of the day.”
But Nena had tuned them out. Her phone was ringing, with Maybe Mercy Hospital displayed on her screen. Could be one of those calls asking for a donation for some fundraiser. She considered ignoring it but knew she’d better not.
Her chair scraped the stone of the patio flooring as she moved to get up. She held her phone in the air. “Will you excuse me? I have to take this call.” She was away from the table and entering the home before either had a chance to respond.
A voice on the other end asked, “Ms. Knight? Nena Knight?”
“What’s happened?” Nena was out the front door now and needed the porch pillar to hold her up. She could hear loudspeaker announcements in the background and, over them, the words, “. . . charge nurse at Mercy Hospital . . . admitted your father earlier today . . . rushed to the ER by ambulance.”
Fear wrapped its icy fingers around her throat and squeezed, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “Is he—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.
“He’s undergoing tests to determine, but your mother is with him. She asked us to notify you and ask you to come.”
“I’m on my way,” Nena said and disconnected the line.
While the only thing running through her mind was that something was wrong with her dad, she couldn’t just leave without saying anything at all. She went back outside, where they were debating whether to have ice cream or key lime pie. They all looked up when she appeared, their faces falling when they saw her expression.
“What is it?” Cort asked at the same time Georgia asked, “What’s wrong?”
Nena looked from one to the other. “My dad’s in the hospital.”
Cort was out of his seat. “What happened? In London?”
“No, they are here on holiday.”
“Can I take you?” he asked, his eyes full of concern.
“Yeah, I can watch Georgia. Go ahead,” Mack offered, worry lining his face.
Georgia was nothing but worry. “Nena?”
She shook her head. She just had to see about her father. Alone. “No. Thank you, but I’ll call, okay?” She spun on her heel and retreated the way she’d come, barely registering the rush of feet to follow her.
“Nena, wait.” Cort was right behind her. However, she was faster, moving at a near sprint to make it to her car without having to engage in any more conversation. She didn’t want to answer questions or receive any more pitying looks. She only wanted to get to her father’s side and find out what had happened.
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Nena rushed into her father’s hospital room. Her mother was fussing with the blankets on his bed. She looked up at Nena and seemed years older, with red-rimmed eyes, hair slightly askew, and worry etched all over her face. Nena allowed Delphine to wrap her in an embrace. It was typical Delphine, always taking care of her family before herself, as most good mothers tended to do.
“What’s wrong with Dad? How is he?” Nena asked, straining to see him around her mom. She extracted herself so she could properly assess him.
The Noble in the bed was not the dad she knew. His pallor was ashen, and he no longer seemed bigger than life. He no longer looked domineering and debonair, like he had all the answers. In that moment he looked vulnerable. Like he could be snatched away from her in an instant. Nearly had been.
“What happened?”
Delphine collapsed into the nearby chair, allowing herself a moment. Her shoulders heaved once as her head dropped in her hands. Panicked, Nena rushed to her and put her hands on her mum’s arms to comfort her.
“Mum,” she said, “what do you need me to do?”
Delphine put a hand up, shaking her head as she got herself together. “I’m fine.” She swallowed her pain. “I don’t know what happened, actually. Your father was at a luncheon, and when he came home, he seemed fine one moment. The next he was vomiting, complaining of dizziness and stomach pains. Then he was foaming at the mouth and passed out. It was horrendous.”
Her mother shuddered, as if trying to shed the images. “One of the men called the paramedics, and here we are awaiting test results.”
“Was Dad feeling ill prior to that?”
“Not really. Maybe a headache or stomachache here and there for the past week.” Her mother stood up, making her way back to the bed, where she held Noble’s limp hand. “I just thought it was fatigue from the meetings he’s had with the Council and Lucien.”
Nena’s stomach plummeted. Her dad had been with Paul.
“He’ll be fine, darling,” her mum assured her when she noticed Nena’s angst. Their mum was always the one with the stiff upper lip. “And while your dad’s recovering, I’ll run the Council. Elin? Is she on her way?”
“Yes, Mum, she and Oliver should be chartering a flight to get back here.”
Delphine nodded. “Good. Because we need to keep a united front. We’re not cracking up in front of that lot, no matter what happens with your dad,” she said.
“Which will be nothing,” Nena added quickly, slipping her hand into the curve of her father’s and feeling its warmth. A warm hand was a good thing, a living thing.
“Nothing at all,” Delphine agreed, offering a thankful smile. “I love you, Nena.”
Nena ducked her head. Those words never ceased to make her a little anxious, although she had no reason to be. She constantly worked to make herself deserving of them, hoping beyond all else it wouldn’t be the last time she heard them from either of her parents.
52
BEFORE
Not even a week after the Knights asked me what I wanted, Ms. Delphine announces once breakfast has ended that she and I are going to an appointment. Imagine my shock when she takes me to see a doctor who handles woman issues. When Ms. Delphine explains to me what a gynecologist does and where in my body the gynecologist will look, I consider running.
No one has seen any private part of me since Monsieur forced me to change in front of him. I am in a state of near hyperventilation until, in the waiting room, Ms. Delphine places a warm hand on mine.
“Please, darling,” she whispers. “We have to do this. We have to make sure you are well.”
“I am well,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well in there,” she enunciates.
What if I’m not? Will they throw me back into the water like a fish too small to keep?
I sit so rigidly my lower back hurts from the strain. The whole time, Ms. Delphine keeps her hand on my arm to either soothe me or prevent me from leaving. I’m not sure which. I do not need a doctor to tell me my insides are ruined. I knew it the moment Paul’s men raped me.
The nurse calls me. Ms. Delphine stands, making me do the same. I loathe doing this. I do not want to again feel vulnerable, but I trust Ms. Delphine’s decisions. The room the nurse leads us into has a small bed that goes up and down, sits up and back. There are metal attachments at the end, which I learn are stirrups. They are nothing like the ones used with horses. The nurse is pleasant enough and asks me questions I cannot answer because I can’t remember.
“When was your last menses?”
I do not know.
“When did you first have your menses?”
I cannot remember. Since the village and the Compound and Robach, things have been different, down there—inside.
“Are you sexually active?”
If my look could kill, there would be one less nurse.
“Were you sexually active before . . .” She trails off. There is no soft way to ask if I was a virgin before I was raped.
At any rate, I was a virgin.
“She would have only been fourteen.”
The nurse clears her throat, sounding nearly as uncomfortable as I feel. “I’m sorry for the questions. It’s just we have to ask about your sexual history, even at that age.”
Ms. Delphine is offended on my behalf, and I sneak a look to see she is glaring at the nurse. “Let’s move on, shall we? These questions are irrelevant. What is important is now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The nurse asks me to remove my clothing and don the paper robe.
She leaves us alone. Ms. Delphine tries to avert her eyes when I turn my back on her so I can undress. I worry about what the doctor will say about me, because I will not be able to bear her pity. When we return home and she tells Mr. Noble and Elin what she has heard, they will pity me too.
The doctor is not only a woman but the same color as me. She is older, maybe sixty, with big round glasses and a comforting smile. I relax a bit. Her hands are warm and soft, and she does not talk down to me or make assumptions.
“May I?” she asks before touching me.
She will never know how grateful I am that she asked first. I nod, sneaking a look at Ms. Delphine, who earlier refused to leave when the nurse suggested that she wait outside during the examination.
“She is my daughter,” Ms. Delphine told her. “You’re mad if you think I’m leaving her.”
My entire chest expanded so much I was afraid it would explode.
The doctor tells me what she is doing every step of the way. She shows me the speculum before she puts it in. Despite my effort to keep quiet, I cry out from the pain, from memories of my defilement by those men. Down there, the doctor makes sounds I cannot discern to be good or bad.
“Nurse, let’s have an ultrasound.”
Once the technician completes the ultrasound exam, the doctor says regretfully, “Just as I feared.” The monitor is swirls of gray, black, and white. I do not know what I look at, but she begins to explain. “This”—she points at the screen, tracing a web of what looks like white bands in a sea of black and gray—“is what I was worried about. It’s scar tissue, a result of extensive traumatic injury. Untreated scar tissue hardens, which it’s done now. Scarring can come from tears in the vagina from forceful entry or could be from untreated sexually transmitted diseases.”
“Does she—?” Ms. Delphine chokes out.
The doctor looks at me with compassion. “We’ve tested for all of it, and the results will come soon. I’ve put a rush on them. To me, this scarring looks like a result of forced entry.”
Ms. Delphine says, “I did explain to you that Nena has been sexually assaulted.” She glances at me. “Repeatedly,” she whispers as if I have not lived it. She uses her right hand to twirl the large diamond rings on her wedding finger.
The stitching of the doctor’s name on the breast of her coat reads Eddington. “Yes, and the massive scarring . . .” She trails off. “Reveals a substantial history of abuse.�
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She didn’t need these scars to tell her that. I could have told her that without all this fuss.
“Which is why she’s now with us,” Ms. Delphine explains rigidly.
I drown them out. The doctor says nothing I do not already know. My scars are not new to me. They are only a part of my story.
She pauses, her duty making her deliver the rest. “I also fear Nena will be unable to carry children without extreme difficulty. Maybe not at all.”
My head swivels toward Ms. Delphine, and to my shock, she is crying. I hate these moments. Consoling people is not my thing, but I pat the hand resting on my arm.
Pat, pat, pat.
“No children?” Ms. Delphine interprets.
“It looks unlikely. There is too much damage, rendering her body unable to sustain a pregnancy. And if her assailant passed on an STD that went untreated, her ovaries and eggs were likely compromised.”
Pat, pat, pat.
Our roles reverse because while I am okay with this news, Ms. Delphine is beyond solace.
“My child cannot have her own children?”
There is a lightness in my chest at hearing her say “my child,” as if I have been there all along.
Pat, pat, pat.
This time, I will not fail them.
“No more tears, Mum,” I say. Pat, pat, pat. “I will be okay.”
Mum looks at me and dissolves into more tears. Have I misspoken? Her shoulders are shaking, and she is a blubbering mess. I cannot tell if it’s calling her Mum that has reduced her to pieces or the news I am barren.
And there you have it. I will not bear children. And I am not surprised by it. It is my fate, the final nail in my coffin, so to speak, for betraying my family.
Fitting, no?
Consider it. Death and violence are my legacies.
But watching Mum strengthens my resolve to become the best at whatever I do from this moment forward. I resolve to make amends to my first family, to no longer know fear.
I swear to protect the people of my new family.
Who have opened their arms to me, have invested in me.
Offered me a seat at their table.
And have given me their name.