25. A Free Man – Kenya
The recording was submitted to our attorney, and within a few days, the court called my brother to vacate.
Like, Jared’s whole life was just… a meeting they forgot to cancel.
“Your brother’s conviction has been vacated,” the lawyer said over speakerphone, voice smooth like he hadn’t slept just to get us this far. “Charges dismissed. We’ll finalize the paperwork in the morning. He’ll be processed out by noon.”
Vacated.
Dismissed.
Processed.
Pretty words for we stole half his life and now we gon’ hand back what’s left like a doggie bag.
I sat at the kitchen island, elbow on marble, fingers pressed against my forehead. The war room screens were dark for once. No feeds. No plates. No moving red dots. Just a silent house that still smelled faintly like antiseptic from when the nurse changed my bandages.
Zayden stood by the window, arms folded, watching the backyard, as if someone could slide through the grass and steal our kids from the shadows.
Xavier leaned against the fridge, thumb tapping his phone screen, eyes sharp on nothing.
Chanel paced the length of the room, heels clicking softly on tile, ponytail swinging.
“Vacated,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word. “So that’s it? They say ‘our bad,’ and we’re supposed to be grateful?”
“That is them saying ‘our bad,’” the lawyer said. “In the only language the system speaks.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “Walk me through tomorrow.”
“We’ll meet at the facility at 11:30,” he replied. “They’ll try to stall, maybe ‘misplace’ a form or two. Don’t react. Don’t threaten. Don’t gloat. Just let me push.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “I know the drill.”
Jared had taught me that.
Silence sat heavy for a second.
Chanel stopped pacing. “So… he’s really coming home.”
Her voice cracked. I looked at her. Really looked. Chanel Davis-Hughes, esquire. My baby sister had one foot in their world and one still stuck in ours. She walked that line in heels I’d never wished on her.
“Yeah, Baby Bear,” I said softly. “Big bro is coming home.”
Her throat bobbed. She nodded once, too fast, like she was trying to keep her eyes from spilling over.
X pushed off the fridge. “Do you want me there or staying clear?” he asked. “Media gon’ be sniffing.”
“Fuck the media,” Chanel snapped.
Zay finally turned from the window, gaze cutting across all of us.
“I’ll drive,” he said. “You shouldn’t be behind the wheel yet, YaYa.”
My ribs still ached. My shoulder still pulled wrong when I moved too fast. My face had healed that makeup enough could do the rest, but my body still remembered shackles every time I tried to stretch.
“I can drive,” I argued out of habit. “Besides, Camilla will want to see him. We all grew up so close. We’ll roll in. You, me, and Camilla.” I said to Channy.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
I lay next to Zayden in our bed, his body a solid line of heat at my back, his hand resting on my hip, thumb drawing slow circles against the waistband of my shorts.
The house was finally quiet. The twins were at my daddy’s.
Security rotations were tighter than ever. Even the ice maker sounded nervous.
“You awake?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You thinking about Jared or Sharon?” he asked.
Both.
“Jared,” I lied.
He huffed a low sound. “You are a terrible liar, Mrs. King.”
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “You ever think about how twisted this shit is?”
“Which part?” he asked. “The fact that your mama was fucking the same professor who almost put you behind bars twenty years ago? Or that her side baby grew up to be an architect of this whole mess?”
Sharon Davis used to stand in the choir loft with her headscarf tied just so, lipstick lined perfectly, voice raised in hymns like she actually believed in redemption. All that time, she was sneaking around with Alan fucking Price while Daddy was working overtime shifts at the plant.
She’d called me fast.
Disrespectful.
Ungrateful.
But she was the one who sold her son for peace and quiet.
“Jared knew too much,” I said, voice low. “He knew about Alan. He knew about Cameron. He told me once that the math in our house didn’t add up.”
Zay watched me closely. “You believe he was going to tell your daddy?”
“I think he was about to. And Sharon couldn’t risk losing her place.”
“Place in what?” he asked.
“In the story she built,” I said. “Wife and mother. The good one. The victim. The martyr. You can’t be all that with a son who knows where the bodies are buried.”
Zay nodded slowly.
“You gonna kill her?” he asked plainly. No judgment. Just logistics.
My chest tightened.
“Yes,” I said. “I need her alive long enough to get Cameron. But she and Miles will pay.”
He slid closer, pressed his forehead to mine.
“You have to do what you had to do,” he murmured.
While I knew Sharon had to die, I grieved killing that lady. I worried about how my father would react once he found out. Because somewhere in the middle, between survival and selfishness, the line blurred. This was complicated. I’ve taken plenty of bodies, but my mom’s blood felt heavy.
“Get some rest,” he said finally.
“Can’t,” I whispered. “My brain won’t shut off.”
He kissed my jaw, slow. “Then let your body rest. I got you.”
I closed my eyes.
Listened to his breathing.
Counted heartbeats.
Eventually, sleep came in pieces.
The next morning, the sky was that pale gray that made everything look washed out.
I dressed simply in black sweats, a black hoodie, my favorite gold hoops, and Nike Air Max sneakers. Nothing flashy, just YaYa going to pick up her big brother from the place that stole his twenties and thirties and half his forties.
In the foyer, Chanel adjusted her blazer for the third time.
“You don’t have to dress like a closing argument,” I told her.
She shot me a look. “Yes, I do. What if the correctional officers try to fuck with us if they don’t know I’m an attorney?”
Xavier came down the stairs behind her, in a white tee, gray sweats, and a black hoodie hanging open, with a chain tucked. He looked like any other Crestwood Nigga headed to the corner store. Only his eyes betrayed him. They were sharp, scanning, ready to end something if it moved wrong.
I should’ve known his damn brother wasn’t letting us ride alone.
Camilla arrived last. She stepped in from the porch like a storm had followed her, curls pinned up messy, big gold hoops, white tee knotted at the waist, ripped jeans, sneakers, and light makeup with lip gloss, eyes bare and too bright.
She looked way too good to be taking a five-hour drive.
“Morning,” she said, with a tight smile.
“Why are you so dressed up I teased?” I asked her.
She rolled her eyes. “I missed him, too, YaYa.”
Zay had the car running, the low hum of the black Yukon filling the driveway like a warning. Two other trucks followed, staggered behind us, not close enough to draw attention, not far enough to lose. Since my kidnapping, Zay and X hadn’t been taking any shortcuts with our safety.
We rode mostly in silence.
X sat in the back row, hood up, AirPods in, but I knew there wasn’t any music playing. Chanel stared out the window, fingers worrying the edge of a manila folder in her lap. Camilla sat beside me, both hands wrapped around a bottle of water she hadn’t opened.
The Prison gates always looked the same.
It didn't matter the state, the architecture, or the color of the concrete. They all shared that vibration as if they were designed to hold more than bodies. Hope got stuck in there, too.
We parked where the lawyer had told us, out of range of the main cameras but close enough to see the exit doors.
Our attorney Miller was already waiting, suit crisp, eyes tired.
“Paperwork’s done,” he said, handing me a clipboard. “You just need to sign as next of kin.”
I signed.
“Media?” Zay asked.
“Got held at the outer checkpoint,” Miller said. “Somebody in there doesn’t want a circus.”
“Somebody in there owes me money,” Zay corrected under his breath.
We waited.
Waiting was the worst part.
The big steel door didn’t open with drama. It just… clicked, then swung open.
A guard stepped out first.
Then Jared.
For a second, my brain refused to reconcile the man in front of me with the brother in my memory.
He’d always been tall; that was the same. His shoulders were broad, but prison carved its own weight into a person. It settled in the corners of their eyes, in the way they scanned perimeters, in the way their shoulders held like they were still expecting impact.
His hair was more salt than pepper now, cut low. His beard was full, streaked with gray. There was a scar on his jaw that hadn’t been there before. But his eyes were the same.
Warm brown.
Tired.
Sharp underneath.
He squinted against the light, hand lifting to shade his face.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then my legs did, on their own.
“Jare-Bear,” I whispered.
His gaze locked on me.
“YaYa?” he croaked.
That was all it took.
I ran.
The distance between us felt both longer and shorter than it was. My sneakers slapped asphalt. My ribs protested. My shoulder pulled. I didn’t care.
He opened his arms.
I crashed into him.
The impact rattled both of us. For a second, we just held on. His arms wrapped around me so tight it almost hurt. My face smashed into his chest, the rough fabric of the prison-issue shirt scratching my cheek. I felt his whole body tremble.
He smelled like institutional soap and recycled air and something that still, somehow, was my brother.
“I got you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I got you, YaYa.”
I hadn’t cried when they dragged me out of my own dance studio. I hadn’t cried in that fucking storage unit when the pain was too much, and nobody was there to see. But this was different. I cried like a baby.
This was grief and joy and rage and relief, all fighting for the front seat.
I sobbed into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I choked. “I’m so fucking sorry, Jared.”