Chapter 4
Indigo
Everybody thought Dutch lived in Brooklyn, but I knew he laid his head in Queens in a two-story brick house on a quiet block full of people who probably thought he owned a chain of laundromats or something.
The lawns were trimmed. Cars were washed.
It was the kind of neighborhood where the biggest drama was whose kid dinged whose mailbox with a baseball.
I had learned his address from his brother one night when he was up in the club drinking and telling his brother’s secrets to me and Diamond.
Guys like him always hid in neighborhoods like this. I knew from experience. My daddy had one of these houses where he kept some woman he actually cared about—someone he didn't want in the life he lived.
I’d been standing on his porch for thirty seconds, listening to the TV through the walls. He had some sports game on, by the sound of it.
It was just after seven. Right before he'd normally head to the club.
I rang the bell.
I could hear footsteps inside. Heavy. Unhurried. The deadbolt slid open. The door cracked. Dutch stared at me.
For a moment, he didn't breathe. Didn't blink. He just stood there with one hand on the door and the other holding a half-empty bottle of beer, his whole body frozen mid-motion. His eyes moved over my face like he was checking if I was real—like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Midnight?”
It was in his voice. Pure, unfiltered shock. Not surprise at seeing me at his door, but surprise at seeing me at all. Surprise that I was still breathing, still standing, still capable of showing up unannounced and watching his world crumble behind his eyes. He hadn't expected to see me again.
I leaned against the doorframe. “Surprise.” I made sure my smile looked ominous. The HK in the small of my back felt heavy.
Dutch blinked twice. Three times. His mouth opened and closed like a fish that forgot how to water.
“You're... here?”
I smiled bigger. Showed teeth. “Yeah. I am.”
He still hadn't opened the door all the way.
His body was half-blocking the entrance, like he could physically prevent me from coming in if he just stood there long enough.
His eyes darted down the block behind me.
I suspected he was checking for backup, checking for witnesses, checking for anyone who might be watching this little reunion.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Can I come in?”
He hesitated. Then that smug little half-smile of his came back. The one he wore at the club when he was about to tell a girl her cut was smaller than expected. The one that said, I’m in charge here and we both know it.
“Midnight, this really isn't a good—”
I used my weight, shoved the door open, and stepped inside. He stumbled back. Beer sloshed over his knuckles. The house smelled like cologne and fried food. I took a slow look around the living room.
There was an expensive big-screen TV mounted on the wall like a trophy. Leather sectional. Expensive room, but it still looked ugly. Cheap gold-framed artwork covered the walls. Landscapes. Abstract splotches. A print of Times Square at night that you could probably buy at Target for forty bucks.
“Nice place,” I said.
Dutch shut the door behind me slowly. His hand was shaking.
“Looks like three bedrooms?” I asked.
“Four.”
“Nice.” I nodded toward the kitchen.
“How do you know where I live?” he asked.
“Malik gave me the address.”
That wiped the smugness right off his face.
“My brother talked to you?”
“He hates you, you know?” I ran my fingers across the back of his leather couch. “I know how that feels. My little brother tried to kill me too. But Malik doesn’t have the heart. Family drama, am I right?”
Dutch's jaw tightened. His knuckles cracked from how tight he held his bottle.
“Because he's weak. Always has been. He—”
I cut him off. “I didn't come here to talk about your brother or mine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what the fuck do you want, Midnight?”
I let the silence stretch. Let him feel it.
Then I stepped closer.
“I came to talk about the fat Russian motherfucker you sold me to.”
The color drained from his face. I ain’t never seen a Black man go pale until then.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Twenty thousand dollars.” I said it slow. “That's what he offered you. That's what I was worth to you. Too bad you didn’t know who I really was. My husband would've given you a lot more.”
“I don't know what you're talking about! Who are you?”
“Jasmine. Tiana. Maria with the dimples. How many more, Dutch? How many girls did you sell before you got to me?”
His face went red. The anger was winning now.
“Those girls made their own choices. I didn't force nobody.”
“I was forced! Snatched from your parking lot. You’ve got cameras and that big bitch Leo watching them all the fucking time. How the fuck didn’t you know what was going on, you greasy, lying bitch?”
“I run a business! No more! I don’t know shit else!”
“You run a fucking slaughterhouse!”
Dutch breathed hard, his chest rising and falling. The beer bottle was forgotten in his hand.
“You come to my house. My home. Talking about things you don't understand. Judging me from your high horse while you dance naked for strangers. You're no better than me, Midnight. You're just prettier.”
I let him finish.
I noticed his eyes kept drifting to the couch. He probably had a gun there.
I reached behind my back and pulled the HK, keeping it trained on his chest.
His eyes went wide. The beer bottle slipped, hit the floor, and shattered, glass and foam spreading across his nice tile.
“Wait—”
“You sold me to a man who puts the possessions of women he killed in glass cases.”
“What?”
“Glass cases,” I said calmly. “There’s dozens of them lining an entire wall in his penthouse. Full of dresses. Shoes. Jewelry. Trophies from the girls he hurt.”
Dutch swallowed hard. I watched his throat move.
“I didn't know about that.”
I studied him. The sweat. The way his eyes wouldn't quite meet mine. The little muscle jumping in his jaw. He was a big fucking liar.
“You knew they were disappearing.”
Dutch scoffed, trying to find some bravado.
“Girls disappear from clubs all the time. They run off. Go home. Find husbands. Whatever.”
I tilted my head and reached into my jacket. His eyes dropped to my hand.
The kitchen knife came out slowly. I’d grabbed it from my apartment before I left. Nothing fancy. Just sharp.
Dutch took a step back and hit the couch. Nowhere left to go.
“Now hold on—”
“You knew.”
His breathing got shallow and fast.
“You can't prove that.”
“I had all the proof I needed when I woke up in that psycho’s house.”
He barely had time to react before the blade buried itself in his shoulder.
Dutch howled, slamming into the wall. Blood soaked through his shirt instantly.
“JESUS CHRIST!” he spat.
I grabbed his collar and shoved him into the nearest kitchen chair. He landed hard.
“You knew what he was doing.”
“I didn't—”
I twisted the knife.
Dutch screamed again, his head falling back.
“Try that answer again.”
Tears were already running down his face.
“He paid good money!” The words tumbled out.
“There it is. The truth.”
I pulled the knife free.
“Midnight, I really didn’t know. I thought he was just rough with them,” Dutch said weakly. “I thought maybe he liked it a little rough. Some guys do. I didn't know he was killing them.”
“How many?”
“I don't—I don't remember—”
“Try.”
“Seven,” the word came out broken. “Eight. I don't know. I stopped counting.”
I stared at him for a long moment, then pulled out my phone and dialed Diamond.
“Midnight?” she answered immediately.
“You with Malik?”
“No, why?”
“Tell him to make sure he’s seen by people tonight. Go to public places. After tonight, the club's his. Dutch is retiring. Permanently.”
I hung up.
Dutch was staring at me like I was the devil.
“You can’t kill me,” he whispered. “You're a nice girl. A good girl. I've known you for two years. You're not a killer.”
I laughed.
“A minute ago you said I was very bad, like you. You wanna know what I am, Dutch? I’m somewhere in the middle. You remember about a year ago when you were throwing a fit over the kingpin in Miami who took all 100k of your shipment from the docks and you couldn’t do shit about it? Goa?”
Dutch froze.
“Goa is your daddy?”
“Yes. I can tell by the look on your face that what’s about to happen is dawning on you. My daddy raised his children to be very violent. I can very well kill you, and I will.”
After Sasha.
After losing my baby.
After running.
After pretending I could be something softer than what I was born into with Malachai.
I had made a decision.
I was done pretending I wasn’t my father’s daughter.
I straightened, rolling my shoulders.
“You know what your mistake was?” I asked.
Dutch shook his head, barely breathing.
“You thought I was just a dancer.”
Dutch’s face flickered—confusion, denial, then fear.
Real fear.
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him forward. The chair legs screeched across the tile.
“What are you goi—”
I drove the knife into his thigh.
His scream ripped through the house.
“THAT’S FOR JASMINE.”
I pulled it out. Blood poured fast, soaking his robe.
“No—no, please—”
The second strike hit the other thigh.
“THAT’S FOR TIANA.”
He bucked in the chair, hands slapping at his legs, trying to hold the blood in.
“PLEASE—Midnight—please, I didn’t know, I swear to God—”
“You swear to who?” I snapped.
Maybe this was why Malachai was called the Hand of God. The power. The absolute, terrifying finality of deciding when someone’s clock stopped ticking.
It was intoxicating.
“God isn't in this kitchen, Dutch,” I whispered, leaning in until our foreheads almost touched. I could smell the copper of his blood and the salt of his pathetic tears. “And I'm the only one here who can hear your confessions.”
He was crying now. Loud. Ugly. Snot and tears running together.
“I got kids—” he choked. “I got a family—please—please, I’ll fix it—I’ll give you money, I’ll give you whatever you want—”
I grabbed his jaw and forced his head up.
“Fuck your kids. Your kids’ happiness ain’t more valuable than mine. I had a life here,” I said. “It was quiet. It was fun. I could dance. It was mine.”
He shook under my hand.
“You ruined it.”
“I’m sorry—please, I’m sorry—”
“I killed that psycho because of you.”
The knife slid into his stomach.
He choked on the scream, a wet, broken sound leaving his mouth as his body folded forward.
“I can’t stay here,” I continued, watching his eyes lose focus. “I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t be invisible anymore.”
His hands clawed weakly at my arm.
“I have to go back to my husband,” I said.
“All because of you.”
“Please…” he whispered. “Please… don’t…”
“Sorry doesn’t give me my life back.”
The blade dragged across his throat.
A wet gurgle filled the room.
His hands shot up, grabbing at my wrists, slippery with his own blood.
I didn’t move.
I held him there.
Made him look at me.
Watched life leave him.
His grip loosened first.
Then his body.
He slid out of the chair and hit the floor hard, like something already empty.
The room went quiet.
I stood there, breathing steady.
Feeling nothing.
I wiped the knife on his shirt, grabbed my duffel bag, and tucked it away. I wouldn’t leave any evidence behind.
The Greyhound station was twelve blocks away.
And I had a bus to catch.