I laugh. “It’s not that, it’s just . . . it’s a lot . . .” I don’t even know how to finish. It’s a lot of everything and nothing all at the same time. But all of it together is so much that it turns my stomach into a fist.
MiMi pats my knee like she gets it. “It certainly was nice for everyone to make us all this food. There’s too much of it. I think I might stop by the Boyce’s. Bring them a plate. Lord knows the last thing they need to worry about is cooking right now.”
I swallow even though I haven’t taken a bite of my food yet. I remember the look of disappointment on Mr. Boyce’s face when he talked about all the things his son could’ve been but wasn’t. The hope across Mrs. Boyce’s when I spat her some lie about Kenny and a job prospect. I can’t imagine what either of them looks like now. I don’t think I want to know.
“We’re planning the funeral at Providence,” MiMi says. “I told the Reverend I would help set up.”
“MiMi, you just got back.”
She nods. “I know. That’s why I said you’d help, too.”
I give her a look and she dishes it right back.
“Now you know that’s the least we could do for that family. I didn’t like who he started hanging around with, but he was a good kid. A good kid. And he was always so sweet to Nic. Whenever she’d come storming into the house after some nonsense with Javon, I’d find her on the phone late with Kenny. It’s like he wanted to make sure she was okay. That she was home. But now . . .” MiMi’s voice breaks and I rest my hand over hers. She blinks back tears and I squeeze her hand, try to help her fight them. But the harder I squeeze, the more I push out more of my own. Without even saying it, MiMi says it. With Kenny gone, what did that mean for Nic? He was the one who made sure she got home safe. If he wasn’t here to tether her, where did she drift off to? And is she even able to still drift?
I use my free hand to pinch the bridge of my nose. Try to stop the tears and the thoughts. MiMi rubs the back of my head.
“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s okay. Look around us, baby.” She waves a hand at the older ladies making calls at the dining room table. The young kids drawing on flyers at the coffee table. The hustle and bustle of everything. “This is all for us.” She pulls my head closer to hers to make sure I look at her. I do. “This is all for Nicole. We’re going to find her, baby. We’re going to bring her home.”
I let out a shaky breath, then peck MiMi on the forehead. I want to believe her. I do. But each time I make traction, I lose my footing. Soon, I’ll have nothing left to tread on.
“Hush, everyone!” Sister Gladys calls out, rushing into the living room. “The program’s on!” She grabs her remote and unmutes her TV. The intro to WVZY Evening News blares through the speakers, and moments later, we’re greeted with Price Bullock’s insincere face.
“Imagine this,” he says, taking measured steps through the hospital corridor. I’ll be glad to never see that place again. “A young girl, a church-going girl, preparing to graduate high school this spring. She has her hopes and dreams lined up in front of her. Will I be a teacher? Will I be a doctor?” I frown at him. Nic never mentioned either. “Now, those questions linger in the air—feared never to be answered. Because this young, beautiful girl, Nicole Marie Murphy, has vanished—just like that.” Price snaps his finger and I wait for a rabbit to hop across the screen from his theatrics.
“She’s a good girl,” the MiMi on the TV screen says while rocking back and forth in her hospital bed. I sit next to her in my chair, a vein bulging at my temple from chewing the inside of my cheek so hard. Do I walk around looking this pained all the time? “Always has been. Of course, she’s made a few bad decisions in her life, but what teenage girl hasn’t?”
The screen pauses on MiMi’s shrug and the angelic music they were playing screeches to a halt. “But what exactly were those bad decisions?” Price’s voice-over asks, all deep and ominous. “Sources say, they have to do with Kenny Boyce—the young man who was just found in Deer Park . . . MURDERED.”
Several of the women in the living room gasp as the TV now shows footage of presumably Kenny being wheeled out of the park in a body bag. “Sources also reveal that Kenny was a well-known drug dealer in Newport News, selling, quote, unquote, ‘party favors’ to all the high school parties. Maybe even selling them to one of your children.”
I grit my teeth as the TV now shows a series of the most unflattering pictures they could find of Kenny: him in the background shot of some dude with his face blurred out getting arrested. Him throwing up a peace sign with one hand and holding a can of beer with the other, like it was pulled from someone’s social media account. A close-up of his face grimacing, looking as if he was ready to bite’s someone face off. I know that last one. It’s from the yearbook years ago. If they’d shown the full picture, you’d see him blocking a pass at one of his basketball games. Those bastards.
“So, what does Nicole Murphy have to do with this?” Price asks, now sitting in a newsroom on the screen. “That’s what everyone wants to know. My same sources reveal that Nicole and Kenny were dating, but that she was also his biggest customer.”
“That’s a lie!” Sister Gladys cries out. Then peeks over at MiMi. “Right?”
MiMi’s eyes remain glued to the TV, either too stunned or too pissed to comment.
“Sadly, it would be a cycle of drug abuse. Nicole’s mother is currently serving a sentence in Northern Virginia for crashing into a police car while driving under the influence.” One of my mom’s mugshots pops onto the screen. The worst one. The one where her eyes are barely open and her hair’s all crinkly with clumps of grease at the roots. She had just taken out braids when she decided to run to the store, pick up another bottle of wine—although she already had a full one in her. Even though the mugshot was awful, she only got a slap on the wrist that time.
“Nicole’s father passed away ten years ago from cancer. There is no clear indication of how involved he was with the family prior to his death.”
At that, a small noise escapes MiMi’s mouth and she clasps a hand over it to muffle the sound. I want to reach out and comfort her, but my skin feels like it’s on fire. I’m afraid I’ll sear her if I touch her. I’m afraid to touch anything. Even my own leg as it bounces up and down in front of me.
“As for Nicole, all the family can do is pray for her safe return—and answers.”
I’m back on the screen again, holding MiMi’s hand in the hospital bed. “Yeah, I want her back home,” I say. “I’m tired of taking over her dish days.” The screen cuts back to Price in the newsroom and I leap to my feet.
“That’s not what I meant,” I cry out to the screen, knowing damn well Price can’t hear me. “He knows that’s not what I meant.” He left out the part where he told me to tell a joke, something that would get her attention. He left out the full half hour before that, where MiMi and I shared stories about her helping me with homework or her helping MiMi make dinner or how she was on the homecoming court during her freshman and sophomore years. He left out the part where I said I text her every single night, praying that I’ll get a response, encouraging her to cut her phone back on.
That asshole made Nic look like some common hood rat, or us some common hood family. I scrub my head in frustration as everyone else passes each other glances and whispers. I hear weeping behind me and MiMi’s still on the couch, wiping her eyes. Thankfully, Sister Gladys swoops into my old spot, wraps her arm around MiMi’s shoulder. As much as I want to do that, I can’t right now. I’m on fire. Good thing I didn’t have Price Bullock’s address—or else they’d be showing my mugshot across the screen right now. Looking as haunted and warped as my mom.
Some of the ladies’ eyes return to the TV, in awe, so I glance at it—both out of fear and fuel. Almost like I want a reason to hunt this Price prick down. The screen shows the yellow tape around the spot in Deer Park where they found Kenny’s body.
“. . . and Kenny Boyce’s murder is still an open case,” Pric
e continues. “The police released a suspect from custody earlier this evening. Anyone with information should contact . . .”
The number he recites turns to humming in my ears. The only words that linger: released a suspect. Released a suspect.
Javon Hockaday slipped through the cracks. Again.
Eighteen
WHEN WE GET HOME, I GET MIMI IN THE BED IMMEDIATELY. It’s enough that she had to socialize as soon as she got out of the hospital, but then she also had to deal with the emotional exhaustion of watching that smear campaign Price Bullock called news earlier tonight. And to be embarrassed like that in front of the women of her congregation? Sure, they were all hugs and well wishes while we were over at Sister Gladys’s, but I know that as soon as we hit the bricks, those gums started bumping. That’s what they do.
“It’s not right,” MiMi says again as I pass her a glass of water to swallow down her medicine. “He promised me he’d get my baby back home. The way he painted her up there? Nobody’s going to care if she makes it home in one piece.”
“We care, MiMi,” I say. “We’re going to make sure she gets home in one piece.” By we I mean I, but I’m not about to add extra worries in MiMi’s head right now. “Now go ahead, get some rest.”
MiMi takes her pills and I help her lie down. Pull the blanket up to her chin. “I just hope she knows I’m not mad,” MiMi says, eyes halfway closed.
“She knows, MiMi. She knows.” I peck her on her forehead. By the time I walk over to switch off her light, I can hear her lightly snoring—the day taking its toll on her.
Good.
I grab my bike just as my phone buzzes. I smirk, already knowing what it is. Right after that fake-ass news hit the airwaves, Bowie’s post about Nic started blowing up. Only it wasn’t leads. The trolls came out in full force. People with no profile pics calling Nic ghetto . . . or worse. Folks posting phony stories about seeing Nic and Kenny strung out together. These assholes even had the nerve to start tagging me in their insults—hence, my buzzing phone. I finally cut off my alerts and push my bike out the door.
Now here I am. Camped out behind a tree in front of Javon’s building, waiting for him to make his next move. His Dodge Charger is parked in its usual spot, so I know he’s still here. Slim and Quan aren’t posted on the stoop. With Javon being released from the police and all today, he probably thinks he needs to lay low for a bit.
But I know Javon. Or at least I know Javon through Nic. He’s too antsy to stay in one place for too long, especially when he feels the heat on him. It’s just a matter of time before he cracks up and does something stupid. He might’ve gotten over with the cops again, but he’s not pulling the wool over my eyes. He’s going to lead me right to Nic.
I glance at the clock on my phone. It’s after ten. I’ve already been out here over an hour and Javon hasn’t as much as cut on his bedroom light. What the hell could he be doing? Riley would have something witty to say about the possibilities. Hell, Riley would find some clever way to get into Javon’s building to get answers, like dressing up as someone from DoorDash or something. I pull up my contacts and my thumb hovers over her name. I wonder if she saw that trash on the news today. I wonder if she thinks differently about me or my family. Even if her parents feel validated, she wouldn’t believe that nonsense. Right? Maybe I should call her just to be sure . . .
There’s a loud clatter as the front door of Javon’s building flies open, knocks against the brick. I duck farther behind the tree as Javon scurries down the steps of the stoop, face all twisted like somebody’s about to get the ass whooping of a lifetime. You’d think a man who got off scot-free for murdering his best friend would be happier—unless he feels like the walls are closing in on him.
He hops in his car and speeds off. I hop onto my bike and take off after him. I may not have an engine, but the steam in my head is enough to keep me going.
I died about five minutes into chasing after Javon with my bike. Thankfully, I had enough strength in my lungs to order an Uber when Javon stopped to gas up his ride. I type a random destination in and get the driver to meet me across the street from the gas station. I tell him to follow Javon. That he’s my friend and I’m worried. I’ll change the route and pay him for wherever we end up. The driver nods and does what he’s told. As long as he gets paid, he’d follow Javon to Arizona. Hopefully it won’t cost me that much.
Javon zigzags through lanes, floors it on yellow lights. Only pausing at stop signs. It’s like he doesn’t care that the cops have their eyes on him. He’s a man on a mission, but so am I. And so apparently is Yusef, my Uber driver, who keeps up with Javon as if he reenacts car chases as a side gig.
We reach the outskirts of uptown Newport News—closer to the Yorktown or Williamsburg area of the city lines. The part of Newport News where the houses get bigger, the cars get sleeker, and the residents get whiter. Javon finally turns into a neighborhood where a wrought iron gate holds up a sign in fancy cursive lettering: Feather Fork Homes. Feather Fork? Why does that sound familiar?
“I’ll take it from here,” I say to Yusef from the back seat.
“You sure? I don’t think he’s spotted me yet.” Yusef’s eyes dance in the rearview mirror. I guess I’m the highlight of his evening, but his bright yellow Toyota doesn’t necessarily bleed into the night. If I needed to see what Javon was up to, I had to be stealthier.
Yusef pulls up alongside a curb and I yank my bike out of his trunk. Take off behind Javon before my ass is even on the seat. He finally slows down a bit and my legs thank him for the break. I ease up on them, make sure to keep a safe distance so he won’t spot me. Javon turns down one more street until he reaches a cul-de-sac, pulls his car alongside the curb of the house on the end. I park my bike behind an SUV about half a block away. Massage my legs a bit while I wait on Javon’s next move.
Javon doesn’t leave the car. Just flicks on his interior light as he punches something furiously into his phone. I glance over at the house and take it all in. Columns near the front entrance. Wooden stairs leading to a second-floor deck at the side of the house. A birdhouse in the front yard in the same style as the main home. I suck in a breath. I know exactly where we are. I rode with MiMi over here a few times before, picking up a reluctant Nicole after not telling MiMi she decided to spend the night.
The front door opens and Sterling spills out of the house, wearing a sweatshirt, tiny cotton shorts, and some fuzzy bedroom slippers. I duck lower as she looks around the neighborhood. Finally, her eyes laser in on Javon’s car.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, flailing her arms behind her toward her house.
“Get your ass in here!” Javon barks from inside the car. Sterling folds her arms across her chest and holds her head up high, just like a blonde girl that’s been handed everything in her life. Javon leans forward and pushes open the passenger door. Sterling peeks back at her house again, then sighs and enters the car, closing the door timidly behind her.
Javon’s arms thrash around as he says whatever he says to Sterling. Her arms respond in the same fervor, going at it in some manic dance battle. I don’t get it. Why the hell is Javon so pissed at Sterling? Sterling’s tagged along with Nic to a few of his parties or whatever, but Nic never mentioned them saying more than two words to each other. Almost like they had some unspoken agreement that they only tolerated each other because of Nic. Just like me and Javon.
Javon leans over and gets right in Sterling’s face. His words come out more hushed, but his anger hasn’t muted. I can tell by the way his head seems to bob after every other word. I need to get closer. I have to find out what’s going on. If Nic is the only thing these two have in common, there’s only one thing they both could be arguing about right now—and that’s wherever the hell Nic could be.
I peel off my bike, squat down real low even though my quads scream at me. I do some strange duck shuffle toward the back of Javon’s car, keeping my head down so I can’t be spotted in Javon’s rearview mirr
or.
“I know, Von,” I think I hear Sterling say. Von? That sounds rather friendly for people that were just acquaintances. “You really think I’m that stupid?”
I can’t make out what Javon says, but by Sterling’s gasp, I’m guessing the answer is yeah. He thinks she’s pretty damn stupid.
“I can’t believe you,” Sterling continues. Thankfully this girl hasn’t learned the art of whispering. “After all this, you really think that about me?”
Javon makes a noise. A cough. A scoff, maybe? Damn, where’s Riley when I need her? She’d MacGyver her way into picking up sound from Javon’s end. Maybe if I called him, he’d pick up. Be too pissed to hang up the phone on me and I could catch the rest of the action. Wait, did I even have Javon’s number?
Sterling’s front porch lights cut on and I scurry away, dive back behind the SUV. My chin scuffs across my tire and I clutch my mouth to stifle my groan. I look down at my hand and a few droplets of blood have gotten on the sleeve of my hoodie. Dammit.
I hear tires screech, and I look up through the SUV window in time to see Javon speeding off. Sterling’s left in her front yard, literally eating Javon’s dust. I watch her watching him until his taillights fade away. Finally, she lets out a sigh and hurries back inside her house.
“It’s just me, Dad!” she shouts before she closes the front door behind her, and the house swallows her whole. I climb to my feet, stare at her house. Nic might not be in there, but the person who knows her whereabouts definitely is. And the other one just left.
Nineteen
I THOUGHT I MIGHT BUMP INTO STERLING IN THE HALLS at school the next day. Sure, she’d probably ignore me—probably have Meek draped around her like an angry shawl—but maybe I could pull her aside. Get something from her that would tell me what the hell is going on. But I never saw her. Word in the hallways is that she was out sick. How convenient.
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