CHAPTER 9
Sisters Don’t Keep Secrets
The van moved before I had a chance to sit down.
I grabbed the side of the wall to keep from falling.
There were no windows in the back. Only two metal benches, a small light above the door, and my mother sitting across from me like this was a normal family reunion.
The female officer climbed into the front.
“Take Broadway,” my mother told her. “Stay off the interstate.”
The van made a sharp turn.
I stared at the woman I had spent nineteen years mourning.
“Nesha is my sister?”
My mother opened a black case and removed a clean shirt.
“Take off those bloody clothes.”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I heard you.”
“Then answer it.”
She handed me the shirt.
“We don’t have time for this.”
“You had nineteen years. Make time.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Nesha is your father’s daughter.”
I laughed, but nothing about it was funny.
“My father only had two daughters.”
“He had three.”
“Tasha knows?”
“No.”
“Does Nesha?”
“She found out five years ago.”
Five years.
Five years of sitting inside my home.
Five years of holding my babies.
Five years of calling me her best friend while knowing we shared blood.
I grabbed the shirt from my mother and threw it across the van.
“She knew for five fucking years?”
“She was trying to protect you.”
“Everybody keeps saying that while lying in my face.”
“She wanted to tell you.”
“But you stopped her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the people looking for me would use everyone connected to me. The safest thing for you was not knowing.”
“That didn’t work too well, did it?”
“No,” she admitted. “It didn’t.”
The simple answer made me angrier.
I had imagined this moment my entire life.
Sometimes my mother walked through my front door and told me the funeral had been a mistake. Other times, I imagined finding her in another city with a new family, living like Tasha and I had never existed.
But never—not once—did I imagine sitting across from her inside the back of a police van while she explained that my best friend was actually my sister.
“Who is Nesha’s mother?” I asked.
“Her name was Valerie.”
“Was?”
“She died when Nesha was six.”
“And Daddy?”
“He knew about her.”
My eyes narrowed.
“He knew and never told us?”
“He paid Valerie to stay away.”
“That sounds like him.”
Our father wasn’t dead.
He just disappeared whenever being a parent became inconvenient.
He came around when he needed money, somewhere to sleep, or wanted to pretend he helped raise us. The last time I saw him was four years ago when he showed up at my beauty supply store asking for ten thousand dollars.
I gave him five and told him never to come back.
He didn’t.
“How did Nesha find out?” I asked.
“Your father told her.”
“Why?”
“He needed money.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he did.
“He showed her a DNA test and said if she helped him access one of the Carter accounts, he would introduce her to the family.”
“Nesha came to me instead,” my mother continued. “She already knew you from the store. She didn’t know how to tell you.”
“So you turned her into a spy.”
“I gave her a way to protect her sisters.”
“By spying on us.”
“By staying close.”
“That black truck was outside my store.”
“Yes.”
“She was driving it.”
“Not when it photographed your children.”
“Then who was?”
“Lawson.”
I thought about Jayce identifying him.
“Why was Nesha driving it tonight?”
“She stole it from the club.”
“And the blood?”
My mother’s expression changed.
“We believe she was shot.”
My anger disappeared.
“Where is she?”
“We’re tracking the package.”
“You said it has a tracking device inside.”
“It does.”
“Then why don’t you know exactly where she is?”
“Because the signal stopped moving near River Road.”
“The warehouse?”
My mother nodded.
“The one in the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s where we’re going.”
“No.”
“You brought me into this van because I could lead you to Nesha.”
“I brought you into this van because Lawson was preparing to kill you during transport.”
“I’m not running while my sister is bleeding somewhere.”
“You didn’t know she was your sister ten minutes ago.”
“She was still my friend.”
My mother leaned back.
“She lied to you.”
“So did you.”
That silenced her.
I picked up the clean shirt and changed as quickly as I could. My entire body hurt. My lip was swollen, my throat was bruised from Malcolm’s hands, and dried blood covered my skin.
“Who killed Dre?” I asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Who killed Malcolm?”
“We don’t know that either.”
“You seem to have a lot of people working for you but don’t know shit.”
“I know Lawson isn’t the person in charge.”
“Then who is?”
“That’s what the folder was supposed to tell us.”
“The folder you made?”
“I didn’t make it. I copied it.”
“From who?”
“Your uncle Kendrick.”
I remembered his name in the original folder with a red line drawn through it.
“You said Lawson killed him.”
“Lawson pulled the trigger.”
“But somebody else ordered it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Kendrick was the accountant for the Carter Empire.”
I frowned.
“My uncle could barely count change.”
“That was the version of himself he showed the family.”
“So everybody had a secret life?”
“Almost everybody.”
“What was yours?”
My mother looked me directly in the eyes.
“I built the empire.”
The van became quiet.
I thought about all the stories I had heard growing up. Men whispered about the Carters controlling drugs, clubs, politicians, and police.
They always made it sound like a man had been in charge.
“You?”
“Surprised?”
“Everybody said Uncle Kendrick ran things.”
“Kendrick handled the money. Your father handled distribution. I handled everything else.”
“What happened?”
“Your father became greedy.”
“That’s it?”
“Greedy men are dangerous. Greedy men who believe a woman shouldn’t have power are worse.”
“So Daddy tried to take it from you?”
“He sold information to a federal task force. He thought they would arrest me, and he could take over once I was gone.”
“But you faked your death.”
“I had no other choice.”
“You could have taken us with you.”
“You and Tasha would have spent your lives running.”
“Instead, we spent our lives thinking our mother was dead.”
Pain crossed her face.
For the first time, she looked less like the woman controlling everything and more like the mother I remembered.
“I watched every birthday from a distance,” she said. “Every graduation. I was outside the hospital when both your children were born.”
“You don’t get credit for hiding in the parking lot.”
“I know.”
“You let us believe you were dead.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what that did to us.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t.”
The van stopped suddenly.
The female officer opened the divider.
“We lost the signal.”
“Where?” my mother asked.
“River Road. Near the old warehouse.”
I stood.
“Let me out.”
“We need to check the area first,” my mother said.
“Nesha might be dying.”
“And running inside blindly might get you killed with her.”
“You can stay in the van.”
The officer opened the rear door.
Cold air rushed inside.
We were parked beneath an overpass about half a mile from the warehouse. Two black SUVs waited nearby with their lights off.
Four armed men stepped out.
My mother handed me a gun.
“You know how to use it?”
“I’ve used three tonight.”
“That wasn’t the answer I wanted.”
“It’s the one you got.”
???
The River Road warehouse looked exactly like it did in the Polaroid.
Broken windows.
Faded brick.
A rusted sign hanging above the loading dock.
This was where my father supposedly worked when I was a child.
Now I understood that he had never been an employee.
He had been running drugs through it.
My mother’s men entered through the loading area. I followed her through a side door.
The inside smelled like oil, river water, and rotting wood.
A thin trail of blood crossed the concrete.
“Nesha,” I whispered.
The blood led toward a row of old offices.
We found her phone first.
The screen was shattered, but it still displayed a picture of her, me, and Tasha at the beauty supply store’s grand opening.
My mother picked it up.
“She’s close.”
“How do you know?”
“The blood is fresh.”
A noise came from the office at the end of the hallway.
I raised my gun.
My mother motioned for her men to spread out.
We approached slowly.
The door was locked.
“Nesha?” I called.
No answer.
One of the men kicked it open.
Nesha was sitting against the wall with one hand pressed to her stomach.
Blood soaked through her shirt.
A gun rested in her lap.
The black duffel bag sat beside her.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned.
I stepped into the room.
“Nesha, it’s me.”
Her eyes struggled to focus.
“Key?”
“Yes.”
She looked at my mother.
“You brought her?”
“She told me the truth.”
Nesha laughed weakly.
“I doubt that.”
I crouched beside her.
“Let me see your wound.”
“No.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“It went through.”
“Then we need to get you to a hospital.”
“We can’t.”
“Yes, we can.”
“The police are looking for both of us.”
“They’re looking for me. They don’t know you’re here.”
Nesha looked at my mother again.
“She didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
My mother stepped forward.
“Nesha, don’t.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
I stood and pointed my gun at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Your friend has lost a lot of blood. She’s confused.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Nesha said.
“Then say it,” I told her.
Nesha pulled her hand away from her stomach. Blood covered her fingers.
“The person who shot Dre wasn’t aiming at him.”
“What?”
“They were aiming at you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. The shooter missed on purpose.”
My mother’s eyes hardened.
“Nesha.”
“She deserves to know.”
“Know what?” I shouted.
“Dre was supposed to die,” Nesha said. “But you weren’t.”
“Who ordered it?”
She looked at my mother.
The answer was written all over her face.
I turned slowly.
“You?”
My mother didn’t deny it.
“You had Dre killed?”
“He compromised the family.”
“He was still talking when they shot him!”
“He had already said too much.”
“You could’ve hit me.”
“My shooter doesn’t miss.”
I stared at her.
Dre’s blood had covered my hands.
His final breath had escaped while I held him.
And my mother had been responsible.
“What about Malcolm?” I asked.
“He wasn’t one of mine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I didn’t order his death.”
“Did you order the raid?”
“No.”
“Did you plant the cocaine?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Nesha to lie to me?”
“Yes.”
Every answer came without hesitation.
My mother wasn’t sorry.
She believed every terrible thing she did was necessary.
“You’re no better than Lawson,” I said.
Her expression didn’t change.
“Lawson hurts people for power. I hurt people to protect my family.”
“The people you hurt have families too.”
“So did you care about Dre before he died?”
The question struck me.
Not enough.
That was the truth.
I had gone to the court prepared to kill him myself.
But that didn’t give my mother the right to make the decision for me.
A vehicle pulled up outside.
My mother’s men raised their guns.
“Were we followed?” she asked.
The female officer checked the security feed on her phone.
“Three vehicles. No plates.”
“Lawson?” I asked.
“No,” Nesha whispered.
“How do you know?”
“Because Lawson doesn’t know about this place.”
My mother looked at her.
“Who shot you?”
Nesha reached for the duffel bag.
“I saw his face.”
“Whose face?” I asked.
“He’s the one who switched the note. He’s the one Lawson works for.”
Headlights shone through the broken warehouse windows.
Car doors opened outside.
At least six men entered through the loading dock.
My mother’s people moved into position.
I crouched beside Nesha.
“Tell me who it is.”
She grabbed my wrist.
“Your father.”
My heart stopped.
“My father shot you?”
“He wants the empire back.”
A familiar voice echoed through the warehouse.
“Karen!”
My mother froze.
“Come out,” the man shouted. “Bring my daughters with you.”
I hadn’t heard my father’s voice in four years.
But I recognized it immediately.
My mother checked her weapon.
Nesha tried to stand, but I pushed her back down.
“You can’t fight like this.”
“I’m not letting him take the package.”
“He’s not taking anything.”
I picked up the duffel bag.
My mother looked at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Ending this.”
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“You made sure of that.”
I stepped into the hallway before she could stop me.
My father stood in the center of the warehouse surrounded by armed men.
He looked older than I remembered. Gray filled his beard, and a deep scar crossed the side of his forehead.
But he still wore the same smile that used to convince me every lie coming from his mouth was the truth.
“There’s my baby girl,” he said.
I pointed my gun at his chest.
“You shot my sister.”
He smiled.
“Which one?”