Chapter 3
Bed-Stuy usually never slept, but the approaching fall had the blocks empty. I pulled my jacket tighter around me with my free hand.
We sat on the concrete edge of the empty pavilion inside Herbert Von King Park, our legs dangling over the dark grass.
The night air was cool, carrying the smell of damp earth and the faint sweetness of someone's backyard garden.
A streetlight flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the basketball courts.
I took a bite of the chopped cheese from the bodega down the block. I didn't eat shit like this anymore. I would in the future, though.
Ayo was next to me, smacking her lips. "Damn, I forgot how good these are."
"Better than that fancy food you probably eat now."
"Way better." She took another bite, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "So how long are you back for?"
I glanced over at her. She paused to look at the smartwatch on her arm.
"Another ten hours," she said. "I came by to see my father. He had a small heart attack."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"He'll be okay." She shrugged, but there was tension in her shoulders. "He's stubborn like that. But I don't want to talk about him." She turned to me, her eyes sharp in the dim light. "Diamond said you found a substitute for me and lost your mind."
I frowned. "Diamond talks too fucking much."
"But is it true?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but she held up her hand.
"Don't lie," she said. "Let me see her."
I hesitated. Then I pulled out my phone, scrolled to a photo of Indigo—one I'd taken in New York back when things were simpler—and handed it over.
She took it, her fingers brushing mine, and studied the screen. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Just looked. Her eyes moved over Indigo's face, her expression unreadable.
After a few seconds, she nodded.
"We could be cousins," she said. "She's a lot less Igbo, though." She handed the phone back. "So you did find a substitute."
I took the phone and pocketed it without looking at the screen. "Keep it a hundred," I said quietly. "You would technically be the substitute."
She scoffed playfully, shoving my shoulder. "Damn."
"I ain't mean it like that." I looked at her, really looked at her. "I met her before you. And maybe you reminded me of her a little..." I paused. "But she wasn't you. And you ain't her."
Ayo's expression softened. "Tell me the story behind her. The real one. Not the surface shit. Not the love-at-first-sight nonsense. I know you. You're deeper than that."
I took a long breath, looking out at the dark park. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets I'd never understand.
“She was dancing at a club. Midnight, she called herself. But that wasn't her real name. Her real name was Indigo."
"Indigo," Ayo repeated. "That's a strong name."
"Yeah. It fits her." I paused. "But that's not the real story. The real story started way before that. When I was fifteen."
Ayo turned to face me, her full attention on me now. "Go ahead."
"I was in Miami. My father had some business there—I don't even remember what. I was supposed to stay in the hotel. But I was young and stupid, and I thought I knew everything. So I snuck out. No phone. No guard. I didn’t even know where I was. I just wanted to see some shit. I got on the bus."
She kept quiet. That was one of Ayo’s strengths… she listened, and she actually heard you.
"I was stupid." I shook my head. "I ended up in the wrong part of town. A few Jamaican hitters recognized me and who I was. Their crew had crossed my father, and my father had reminded them mercy wasn’t one of his virtues.
They grabbed me. I fought. You know my daddy taught me violence.
They beat my ass and threw me in the back of a van.
I broke free," I continued. "I don't even remember how.
I just remember running. Running through alleys, through backyards, through streets I didn't recognize.
I was bleeding—I didn't even know where I was cut. I just knew I had to keep moving."
Her breathing picked up slightly.
"I found an abandoned warehouse. It was dark, full of old machinery and garbage. I crawled into a corner behind some crates, and I just... waited. Waited for them to find me. Waited for them to kill me."
Ayo's grip on my hand tightened.
"I heard a sound. I thought it was them. I thought I was dead. But then I saw her."
"Indigo?" she asked.
"Yeah." I smiled, the memory flooding back. "She was ten. Maybe eleven. Skinny little girl, decked out in Gucci from head to toe, carrying a Birkin bag. She said she'd run away from home because she couldn’t stand her brother's momma after she killed hers."
"Two runaways in the same warehouse."
"Small world." I laughed weakly. "She saw me bleeding, and she didn't run. Didn't scream. She just... looked at me. 'What happened to you?' She had a slight accent. I told her."
'Ain't nobody gonna bother you here. My uncle owns this warehouse, and nobody comes here unless they want problems.'
"She reached inside that big-ass Birkin and pulled out baby wipes.
'Hold still.' She started wiping the blood off my face. And she checked me like she’d done it before.
"No real damage," she assessed. I let out a low breath.
"I let her. I was bigger than her by a lot, older, but she made me feel safe.
When she finished, she reached back into that bag and started pulling out junk food.
Cookies. Chips. Little powdered donuts. Fruit snacks.
Every kind of garbage my father would've thrown in the trash. She handed me half."
I looked down at my hands.
"She frowned at me. 'You look hungry. I know you ain't being picky, skinny.
' So I ate. She talked about her momma who had been killed by her brother's mother, and her daddy who allowed it.
Her brothers. We had so much in common. I didn't have to explain why my father having money didn't mean I had a good life.
Didn't have to explain why a house full of armed men didn't make you feel protected.
She already knew. I told her my momma had died too, killed by my father's enemies.
She got real quiet. Then she looked down at the cookies in her lap and whispered like she wanted to cry for me... 'That sucks.'"
I paused, feeling the weight of it.
"We were there for two full days. She danced. I’d never seen a Black ballerina.
On the third day, I told her I needed to call my father.
She went back out and left me in the warehouse.
She said she was gonna go get a phone from home for me to call my father, that she could sneak in and out without being seen since nobody really paid attention to her after her momma died. "
Ayo's breath caught. "That's brave."
"She left before I could stop her. A few hours passed—long enough for me to think she had abandoned me.
Then she came running through the warehouse.
'My brother saw me,' she whispered. 'He told on me, but I got away before my daddy caught me.
' Before I could stand, voices sounded outside.
Car doors slammed. Her whole face changed.
'My daddy.' She grabbed my arm and dragged me behind a row of rusted machinery, into a narrow space between the wall and a stack of wooden pallets.
'Stay here,' she ordered. 'Don’t make no sound.
' She shoved the phone into my hand, then pushed an old tarp over me. By the time her father’s men entered the warehouse, she was standing in the open alone. "
Ayo watched me, hooked on every word.
"They searched the place for a few minutes, but she never looked toward me. Never gave them a reason to look twice at the pallets. Her father dragged her out. I waited until the engines disappeared before I called my daddy. He got there thirty minutes later. He was livid. He hugged me first. Then he beat my ass with my great-grandfather’s walking stick for leaving the hotel.
" I cracked a dry smile. "You know Nigerian fathers believe relief and violence can occupy the same hand. "
I fell silent for a beat.
"I left out the part about making sure every man involved in that night was dead.
I killed them all. My father saw what I'd become, and he was proud.
I spent the next few years trying to be what he wanted.
I was good at it. The violence came easy.
The coldness was easy. I built a reputation, made a name for myself, became the son every king wanted. But I hated every second of it."
I ran my hand over my head.
"Years later, I saw her at her father’s house. She looked right through me. That shit hurt. But I got a chance to help her later. Then she showed up in New York calling herself Midnight, running."
I gave Ayo the shortened version of everything after that. The club, helping Indigo hide, Florida, and me getting too fucking comfortable pretending that maybe, somewhere along the way, I'd become more than just the friend she ran to when her real life got too heavy.
Ayo was quiet for a long moment. "Did you ever tell her? About the warehouse?"
"No." I shook my head. "I thought about it a few times. But I never did. She didn't remember, and I didn't want to remind her of something she might have preferred to forget."
Ayo nodded slowly, her eyes searching mine. "That's heavy, Chinedu. That's really heavy."
"Tell me about it."
"You went to Florida after she left, y'all were friends, she made you her daughter's godfather... how did it end up with you this sad?"
I dropped my head. "I don’t want to talk about it."
We sat in silence, the breeze carrying the distant sound of a car horn. Ayo's hand was warm in mine, her thumb tracing slow circles on my palm.
"Okay. Now I understand," she finally said.
"Understand what?"
"Why it's her. Diamond made it sound like you picked some pretty married woman and decided she belonged to you because you're fucking insane."
"How am I insane?"
"You are fucking insane," she countered gently. "But this..." She gestured between us. "This explains the attachment. She wasn't just some woman you wanted. Your brain attached her to being fifteen, terrified, and having somebody show up when you thought nobody was coming."
We sat in silence for a while longer.
"Diamond says there’s a husband?" Ayo asked softly.
"And kids. I love the kids. She wouldn’t let me come to their birthday—just said 'fuck me.
' I should have killed him when she was in New York. He don’t deserve her.
" The decision not to kill Malachai when I first found out he was looking for her was something I’d regret my whole life. He was living my life.
Ayo immediately took her hands and placed them over her ears. "Remember what I am and don’t confess murder plans to someone who has a duty to disclose."
I chuckled and leaned over, pulling my wallet out of my pocket. "Here’s a hundred, counselor. Now it’s attorney-client privilege."
She looked down at the bill, then back up at me with a slow shake of her head. "First of all, my hourly rate is six times this," she said, though she still snatched the bill and slid it into her bra. "Second, privilege covers what you did, Chinedu—not what you're planning to do."
I stared at where the money had disappeared. "I’m not planning to kill his ass no more." I left out the part where I planned to wait a few years so Indigo wouldn’t be suspicious.
"Oga, comot for here with that lie," she scoffed. "You think I forgot how your head works? Don’t do something you’ll regret."
"Abeg, leave that matter," I muttered. "Let’s talk about you. You meet anyone? A straight-laced, silver-spoon Nigerian CEO your daddy actually approves of?"