23. Sharon’s Daughter #2
The desperation in her voice nearly broke my heart. Because she could feel that something was awfully wrong. Jared’s expression softened briefly when he looked at her. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a weak kiss against her knuckles.
“No, Millie Millz. I need to talk to my sister alone.”
The familiar nickname eased some of the tension from her face, but not much. She still looked unconvinced and worried.
I didn’t blame her. After everything she’d been through, I’d be possessive, too.
Finally, Zay stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Come on, Camilla.”
Camilla didn’t move.
Jared looked at her again. “Please.”
Something private passed between them then, a trust that was built over decades. Whatever she saw in his eyes convinced her, and she nodded slowly. Then, the others left the room. Camilla and Zay were the last ones to leave. The second the door clicked shut, silence settled over us.
The silence was suffocating and uncomfortable. It was the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. I remained standing near the foot of the bed.
Jared stared at me.
I stared back at him, knowing where this conversation was about to go and feeling my heart break in my chest. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to say to my brother.
The machines beeped steadily beside him. Outside the room, I could hear muffled voices from our family. But inside this room, I had to make decisions.
Finally, he spoke.
“Tell me.”
His words came out low and dangerously controlled.
I frowned. “Tell you what?”
His jaw tightened. The same way it used to before he got into fights as a teenager, and the same way it used to before prison visits ended and guards dragged him away. I hadn’t seen that look in years.
“Don’t do that.”
I pretended to be confused.
“Do what?”
“Pretend.”
A knot formed in my stomach. I was scared of what Jared thought of me and how the fuck he found out. Jared leaned forward slightly despite the obvious pain it caused him. His eyes never left mine.
“Explain why the fuck you shot me, Sharon Junior.”
The nickname he just donned me with hit me like a slap. I physically recoiled. I was nothing like that fuckin’ bitch.
Nobody called me that.
Yes, I physically looked like Sharon, had her skin complexion, her plus-size build, and her deep ass dimples, but I spent years proving I wasn’t our mother. The room seemed to tilt beneath me, and my mouth went dry.
Jared’s voice dropped even lower.
“Right after I was hit, I saw you running from the building adjacent to ours with a gun. The memory came back to me when I woke up.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“It’s not what you think, Jare,” The word escaped immediately.
“I saw you.”
The conviction in his voice made my chest tighten. His breathing quickened. The monitors responded instantly. His heart monitor began beeping faster and louder.
“You were there, and I bought into you being a micromanager with the wedding planner.”
I couldn’t breathe or process how we got here. For thirty-one days, I had prayed for my brother to wake up. For thirty-one days, I had begged God not to take him. And now, the first conversation we had was this.
Jared swallowed hard. Pain flashed across his face. I’m sure he was most definitely in physical pain. His vocal cords must have hurt from talking this much after just waking up, but the pain was guttural. Jared felt betrayed.
“I remember turning around and looking out towards the crowd, but instead I saw you in a bridesmaid dress holding a fuckin’ gun, Kenya.” His voice cracked.
My stomach dropped.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His words came out broken as if even though he was sure of what he saw, he was hoping I could convince him he was wrong.
“Please tell me I’m wrong.”
Tears filled my eyes instantly. Because I finally understood what he thought happened.
I took a shaky breath, then another. Trying to figure out how to explain something that sounded impossible. Trying to explain something that would probably destroy him all over again.
“Jared.” My voice barely worked.
“I swear to God I can explain.”
“Start talking.”
I closed my eyes. I stood there staring at my brother while thirty-one days of fear, grief, relief, and exhaustion collided inside my chest. This wasn’t how I imagined this moment.
In every version of Jared waking up, I was crying.
Camilla was crying. We were laughing, thanking God, and telling him how much we loved him.
Not this.
This was something Chanel and I were supposed to take to the grave.
The hurt in his eyes was almost unbearable.
“Jared,” I said softly. “I need you to listen to me.”
“I’m listening.” His voice remained flat and guarded. It was the same tone he’d used during prison visitations, not the hopeful Jared I had come to know and love again since he came home.
“You did see me.”
The admission immediately made his jaw tighten.
“Thank you.”
“But you didn’t see everything.”
I slowly pulled a chair closer and sat down. I sat down across from him because my legs suddenly felt weak. For the first time since he’d accused me, I forced myself to meet his eyes.
“Do you remember what happened before the shooting?”
He frowned. “I remember the vows.”
“Before that.”
His gaze drifted. He was trying to reach back through a month of unconsciousness.
“I remember people moving around.”
I nodded.
“Do you remember me leaving the groom’s suite after I delivered your gift from Milla?”
His eyes narrowed, but a flicker of recognition crossed his face.
The morning of the wedding, I had disappeared for almost an hour.
At the time, nobody thought much about it because wedding days were chaotic.
Bridesmaids had to run errands, groomsmen were late from drinking too much the night before, and vendors were arriving late.
Everybody was moving in ten different directions.
Only I wasn’t handling wedding business.
I had been following a lead that Chanel and I had received.
Chanel and I got wind that several assassination attempts were scheduled.
“Cameron Price had put out four different hits on your life. One was scheduled for your first dance with Camilla; if that failed, the next attempt would be on your honeymoon, and the third attempt would be at your first mayoral candidate debate. The fourth attempt would be the day of the election, during your speech, whether you won or lost. I swear, ask Chanel. If you don’t believe me.
We hired a private investigator named Alex, and she was able to access the black market, decode the hits, and identify who accepted the jobs and who put them out.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to the proof and shot out of my seat, desperate to show him the truth. ”
“So I decided that I would shoot you and make the hitman believe the job was done. It was supposed to be a graze, I swear. Jare, you have to believe me. It was supposed to be a flesh wound, something that would allow you to be down for a while, but nothing that should have put you in a coma,” I gasped, saying a mouthful as those big ugly tears began to fall down my face again. ”
“Kenya, start at the fuckin’ beginning. Because I don’t believe my wedding day was the day you put this plan together. I need you to rewind.”