by Shelly Ellis
“I don’t accept your resignation and you will not go to the police. You can be noble, but don’t be stupid. You know what would happen if you did that.”
Jamal quieted. His throat tightened. He had wanted this: the power and prestige. He had wanted to stand at Mayor Johnson’s right side—and he was getting exactly what he’d asked for and all the burdens that came with it.
“You’ve learned a hard lesson today. I hope that you fall in line so that you don’t have to endure something similar to what Mr. Seymour had to experience. And that, Jamal, is not a bluff—it is a promise.”
Jamal was sick to his stomach. He took one unsteady step back from the mayor’s desk, then another. He felt like he was sinking into quicksand. When he reached the office door he gripped the door handle with a shaky hand. He turned back around to say something more, but found that the mayor had already picked up his phone again. He was already dialing a number.
“Hey, Bill! I’m back.”
The son of a bitch was actually grinning ear to ear.
“Yeah,” the mayor continued, “that didn’t take as long as I’d expected. Now what were we talking about again?”
Jamal bowed his head, opened the door, and made a hasty retreat.
Chapter 19
Derrick
Derrick arrived back at his apartment, unlocked the door, and gazed inside apprehensively.
He’d tried to be as far away as possible while Melissa packed the last of her things and finished moving out of their apartment. He didn’t want to be witness to all the boxes, trash bags, and chaos. Two decades’ worth of a relationship and five years of living together would take some time to sort through and haul away. So he had run errands, lingering longer than necessary, giving her all the time he thought she might need. But judging from all the racket he heard from inside their apartment and boxes that were stacked around, she might have needed another hour or two.
“You can put those in there,” he heard her say as he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. “Thanks, Mo.”
Melissa’s best friend, Bina, and Bina’s husband, Maurice, were helping her move out. Who knew that the couple they used to double date with would now be bearing witness to the end of their relationship.
Derrick watched Maurice place a stack of bubble-wrapped dishes into a box before taping the lid closed. He hadn’t known Melissa was going to take all their dishes, but then again, he wasn’t going to stop her either. Whatever she wanted to take, she could have; he wouldn’t fight her for it.
Just then, Maurice’s son, Melissa’s godson, came toddling into the living room, waving one of Melissa’s notebooks in the air and letting out high-pitched squeals. The baby had just turned one year old and only started walking about a month ago, but whenever he did it, he seemed to do it at a near run. He was running today too. He ran smack dab into Melissa’s leg, making her laugh.
“What are you doing?” she asked, scooping the baby up in her arms, making him squeal even more. “What are you doing, little man? You stealing my stuff? You stealing my stuff?”
At the sight of her holding and tickling her godson, Derrick’s heart ached a little. He’d thought that she might be holding their child one day, that after years of promising to start a family, they would finally do it. But that hope was lost now.
Derrick stepped into the foyer and peered into the living room. “Almost done?” he asked, and both Maurice and Melissa whipped around to face him.
Melissa didn’t respond. She looked away from Derrick, like she couldn’t stand the sight of him. She ignored him and continued to murmur to her godson.
Maurice glanced up at her, then at Derrick. Gradually, he nodded. “Yeah, we almost done. Just a few more boxes I gotta pack up and load in the truck. We’ll be out of here in about a half hour.”
Derrick nodded and stood awkwardly in the center of the living room. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Do you . . . do you need any help loading anything?”
“Nope! Not a damn thing,” a female voice answered.
Derrick turned and saw Bina striding down the hallway. She was almost the mirror image of Melissa—same height, same show-stopping beauty, and same damn attitude, which was on full display today.
“Hey, Bee,” he mumbled.
“Hello, Derrick. I thought you weren’t gonna be here,” Bina said, tossing her curly hair over her shoulder and cocking an eyebrow.
“Bina,” Melissa said warningly, rubbing her godson’s back as he babbled.
“What?” Bina cried, playing innocent. “I just thought that he’d be scarce today considering everything. I’d think a low-down dirty cheater who broke my girl’s heart would have other things to do. Don’t you have some chick you could hang out with? Some slipping and sliding you could be doing right now?”
Maurice started to look uncomfortable. “Baby, come on . . .”
“No, it’s okay, Mo,” Derrick said, holding up his hand. “I deserve it.” He then faced Bina again, who was now glaring up at him. “Yes, Bee, I am a low-down dirty cheater, and the truth is, I hadn’t planned to be here. Lissa’s text said you guys should be done by five so I came back at five thirty.”
“Well, you can see we’re not done yet so . . . bye!” She then pointed to the front door.
His jaw tightened in frustration. Was she really trying to kick him out of his own apartment? His eyes drifted to Melissa. This time she didn’t look away from him. Would she insist that he could stay, or did she want him to leave too?
She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but stopped short when Bina strolled to her and took the baby, propping him on her hip. She then grabbed Melissa’s hand.
“Come on, girl,” Bina said, “I need your help in the bedroom. We have the last bit of stuff to sort through.”
Melissa broke her gaze with his and nodded. She then followed Bina across the living room, walking right past Derrick, not saying a word.
He watched helplessly as both women walked back down the hall to the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. He closed his eyes.
“Sorry, Dee,” Maurice said. “I know she was dragging you. Bee’s just . . . she’s just standing up for her friend, you know?”
“I know.” He opened his eyes again. “Look, tell Lissa to text me when y’all are done, okay?”
“Okay,” Maurice said.
Derrick turned around, walked back to the front door, and shut it behind him just as Maurice ripped off another strip of tape.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, he stepped through the front door of the Institute. It was the weekend and almost evening time. Most of the boys were in the cafeteria, or on the basketball court enjoying what little sun was left before they had to return to the dormitories. He still hadn’t gotten the text from Melissa that she had left their apartment, so he figured he’d hang out here until he got the all clear.
Might as well finish up on some work, he thought as he pushed the door open to the stairwell.
As he stepped inside, he heard banging and clanging coming from the basement floor. Instead of heading upstairs, he turned and headed a flight below, in search of the source of the noise. The boys knew they shouldn’t be in any of the classrooms afterhours. Whoever was making the noise, he’d have to tell them that whatever they were doing had to stop.
When Derrick entered the basement, he followed the sounds, which led him to the workshop. He looked through the glass window and saw Morgan standing at one of the work tables, banging a sheet of copper with a hammer. He leaned against the door frame, watching for a few minutes as she worked, blissfully unaware of his presence.
“Didn’t expect to find you here on a Saturday,” he called out to her.
Melissa jumped in surprise. She dropped the hammer, yanked off her protective goggles, and stared at him. “Didn’t expect to see you here either.”
He strolled into the workshop, inhaling the smell of sawdust and oil stain. “Had to get out of the
apartment for a while. Wanted to give Lissa some space.”
At the mention of Melissa’s name, Morgan’s face flushed beet red. She lowered her eyes back to the sheet of metal she’d been working on. “Well, I guess you guys will work it out eventually,” she murmured, tugging at her work gloves. “No worries.”
“I doubt it. She gave me back my engagement ring. She’s moving out. That’s why I’m here. She doesn’t want me there while she’s packing up her stuff.”
The workshop fell silent. Morgan bit down on her bottom lip. “I guess you’re expecting me to apologize for kissing you, but I’m not. If you two are breaking up, that’s on you, Derrick.”
“Why should you apologize?” he asked, taking another step forward. “I kissed you too. I didn’t tell you no. I’d been wanting to do it for a long time. I’ve wanted you for a long time, Morgan.”
Her eyes shot up from the sheet metal. She quickly shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “You say that now. But that’s only because she’s moving out . . . because she’s leaving you. You don’t have any other choice.”
“No, I had another choice. I could’ve kept lying to her, but I didn’t. I finally told Melissa the full truth.”
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Which is?”
“That I’m in love with you, and I couldn’t put my feelings for you behind me, even though I wanted to. Even though I knew it might mean the end of a relationship I’ve had since I was twelve years old.”
She stilled. “You told her you’re in love with me?”
He nodded and she blanched. She licked her lips and he swore that he wanted to kiss her all over again.
“I don’t . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to all of this, Derrick.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied with a shrug. “I’m just telling you the truth like I told her the truth. I’m tired of lying.”
He could tell he had just hit her with an emotional wallop. It was a lot to take in.
“Look,” he said, backing away from her, “I didn’t mean to drop all of this on you now—especially out of nowhere. I’ll head upstairs and let you get back to your work, okay?”
She didn’t respond.
He turned on his heel and headed back toward the workshop door.
“Derrick!” she called out from behind him.
When he turned back around, she leapt at him, pressing her body and her mouth against his, kissing him for dear life.
Chapter 20
Ricky
Ricky sat with his back braced against a fallen tree trunk during the early dawn hours, sipping coffee from his paper cup, gazing at the house twenty yards in front of him. He wondered if he was in the right place. He glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand, at the address Ms. Sawyer had given him. Then he glanced at the number posted on the wooden sign at the end of the crude gravel driveway. He tucked the sheet of paper back into his pocket and slapped absently at a mosquito buzzing around his ear. The numbers matched.
So this was it. This was the house where Simone likely lived now, though it looked so rustic that he expected some hillbilly with a banjo to amble onto the wooden front porch, not the sophisticated woman who had stolen his heart and betrayed him back in D.C. The house sat in the center of a three-acre property filled with grass, weeds, two-foot-tall shrubs, and even cornstalks on each side. It was set off from the main road about a quarter of a mile. He knew because he had parked along that road, behind a large thicket of bushes that obscured his Mercedes, and walked the rest of the distance to the house.
The two-story home was badly in need of a new coat of paint and the roof looked like it needed some work too. He still found it hard to believe that Simone lived here, of all places, but at around nine a.m. he saw the screen door open and a young woman walked onto the porch. He raised the binoculars he’d brought with him and saw the young woman looked very familiar. It wasn’t Simone, but her little sister, Skylar.
The young woman looked a lot better now than when he’d last seen her back at Dolla Dolla’s place. She didn’t look emaciated anymore; she was back to a healthy weight. Her long, curly hair was shorter, but no longer looked stringy and pasted to her scalp. He bet she’d been to rehab. He bet Simone had done everything in her power to help her sister get better.
She always put her first, he thought bitterly.
He watched as Skylar tugged her oversized sweater tightly around her, then pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from one of the pockets before sitting down in a swing chair. She then began to smoke, staring off in the distance. She did so for a couple minutes before tossing her cigarette off the porch, rising to her feet, and walking back inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.
He wondered how long it would take for him to finally get a glimpse of Simone. After all, it was her he wanted to see, after driving two hundred miles and risking the ire of the Metro Police if they realized he was no longer in town. He wanted to see her. He had to see her.
Several hours later, his limbs were stiff from crouching so long behind bushes, and the mosquito bites were itching like crazy. It began to drizzle and Ricky started to rise to his feet and make the quarter-mile trek back to his car when he heard the creak of the screen door as it opened yet again. He instantly dropped to his knees, crouching again on the cold, wet dirt. He zoomed in on the front door through the binocular lenses.
Simone was wearing a billowing poncho and matching galoshes. She’d grown her hair out from the blunt cut he remembered and now let fat curls fall along her brow and ears. She swept one out of her eyes as she walked. She was still gorgeous, but she also looked different for some reason. He didn’t know if his anger had skewed his memories of her, but he didn’t remember her face being so round and soft. She looked almost radiant. Even her cheeks glowed. He watched as she paused to peer up at the rainy sky.
“Simone,” he whispered, expecting to feel a rush of fury now that he was finally seeing her in person after all this time.
This was the person who had ruined his life, who had caused his restaurant and freedom to be taken away. She had left him with no choice but to become a police informant to protect his own hide after she had made him the scapegoat for everything. But at the sight of her, Ricky went numb. He didn’t feel rage or sadness or even disappointment. He was in a state of shock, like he was watching a ghost manifest and float in front of him.
Ricky had stayed true to his word; he’d even brought his Glock 43 with him with a loaded magazine. It was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He’d told himself that he’d come here to use it, to finally take revenge for what she had done to him. But now, he could feel that self-righteous fervor seeping out of him like a deflating balloon.
Did he really want to kill her? Was he ready to pull the trigger? Now was certainly his chance to do it.
He watched as Simone tugged the hood of her brightly colored poncho over her head and strolled to a pickup truck that was parked under a metal carport. All he had to do was rise to his feet again, run the distance between them, aim the gun at her head, and pull the trigger. He could get off a few shots and be back in the dense woods before Skylar or her mother would even realize they’d heard gunshots outside the house. But Ricky stayed frozen; he couldn’t move.
Simone reached the pickup and hoisted herself into the driver’s seat. She closed the door behind her and turned on the engine. A few seconds later, she drove down the driveway, bumping over mud and gravel. If she had glanced to her left, she would have seen him a few feet away on bended knee, staring up at her, utterly mesmerized.
The entire time, he didn’t reach for his gun—not once.
The fuck, he thought with disgust as he watched her truck disappear behind a line of trees, as whatever spell he had been under released its grip on him. What the fuck is wrong with me?
He had come here on a mission, and instead he’d stood there with his head up his ass.
Face it. You just don’t have it in you to be a ki
ller, my man, a voice in his head taunted.
Derrick had told him that though Ricky had committed many crimes in his life, murder would never be one of them—the main reason being that he wasn’t capable of taking a life. Ricky had gotten an inkling of that when he watched Dolla Dolla’s bodyguard take out that girl. Now he had a sinking feeling that Derrick was indeed right.
But she deserves this shit, he thought as he trudged back to his car and the drizzle switched to a downpour, making him blink water out of his eyes. Unlike that poor girl whom Melvin had killed, Simone deserved what was about to come to her. And he wouldn’t be deterred from what he had to do.
He drove back to town, ate lunch at a rest stop, and lingered before returning to her house at around sunset. He sat in the bushes for hours and waited until well after dark before he decided to make his move. When the clock struck midnight and the lights inside went out, he crept through the woods and around the perimeter of the house until he reached the rear. He waited for the growl of a guard dog or even a motion detection light to come on, but he heard and saw neither.
Not smart, Simone, he thought with an inward shake of the head as he carefully mounted the wooden stairs of the back porch.
For a woman who had packed all her things, abruptly left town, and was obviously trying to stay hidden, she was making a lot of mistakes. But Simone must have assumed if no one had found her and Skylar after all this time, they were safe. Her missteps could work in his favor.
He opened the back screen door a few inches and it loudly creaked, making him wince. He paused and looked up, expecting the shade on one of the back windows to fly open and for either Simone or Skylar to peer down into the dark. But no shade went up. Nothing happened. So he opened the door farther and stepped onto the porch. As he drew near the back entrance of the house, he thought he could hear through one of the open windows the faint sound of a television laugh track.
Had one of them left the television on while she slept, or was someone in the house still awake?
He considered for minute or two whether it would be better to wait until they were fast asleep, and then heard a crack of thunder overhead, signaling that another storm was well on its way. He couldn’t stand on the back porch all night, and he didn’t want to have to walk in a downpour again. And every hour he stayed in Virginia, the more he felt like he was leaving tracks and traces of himself behind that the police could find later.