Chapter 35 Zahara
ZAHARA
The morning started wrong and I couldn’t figure out why.
I was at the stove making breakfast—scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, toast with butter—when Yusef came out of his room already dressed for school.
His backpack was on. His jacket zipped. His new glasses sitting perfectly on his face.
But something about the way he moved made my stomach tighten.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” I said, reaching for a plate.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yu, you need to eat something before—”
“I said I’m not hungry.” His voice was flat. Distant. Like he was somewhere else entirely.
He headed for the door.
“Wait.” I wiped my hands on my apron and followed him. “Why are you leaving so early? School doesn’t start for another hour.”
He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. Didn’t turn around.
“I just need to go.”
“Yusef, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He opened the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Then he was gone.
I stood there staring at the closed door, that tightness in my stomach spreading to my chest.
Something was wrong. Had been wrong for weeks now. But every time I pushed, he pulled away. Every time I asked questions, he shut down.
I told myself it was just the bullying. Just the stress of middle school. Just a phase he’d grow out of.
But standing there in my empty apartment, listening to the silence he’d left behind, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something more.
Something I should’ve seen.
Something I should’ve stopped.
I shook off the thoughts and went back to the kitchen. Scraped the untouched breakfast into a container for later. Washed the dishes. Tried to focus on the day ahead.
I wasn’t scheduled to work at Grits today. Which meant I had the whole day to work on Sweet Zin.
After the gala, things had exploded. My phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with inquiries. Catering requests. Wholesale questions. People asking when I was opening a storefront.
A storefront.
The idea had seemed impossible a month ago. Now it felt within reach.
I sat down at my small kitchen table with my laptop and a notebook, ready to work on a business plan. If I was going to approach investors or apply for a small business loan, I needed to have everything organized. Projections. Costs. Location options. A real plan.
But first, I let myself do something I’d been avoiding.
I opened Instagram and searched for Mehar’s profile.
Her face appeared on the screen. She had the same chocolate skin as me and the same pretty brown eyes. Despite us having different mothers, she looked like me and my twin.
Her latest post was from yesterday. A photo of her at the Atlanta airport, smiling in front of a sign that read “Welcome to Georgia.”
Visiting my favorite aunt for the week! ATL, here I come! ????
Relief washed over me so strong I almost laughed.
She was in Georgia. A whole state away. Which meant she wouldn’t be showing up at Grits. Wouldn’t be calling my name across the diner. Wouldn’t be hunting me down while I was trying to work.
I had a week. A whole week of breathing room.
How was our father allowing this?
The man I remembered—the man who’d controlled every aspect of our lives, who barely let us leave the house without a chaperone, who treated his daughters like possessions to be guarded—that man would never have permitted his unmarried daughter to travel alone.
Had he changed? Had she fought for her freedom? Or was there something else going on that I didn’t understand?
I closed Instagram and pushed the questions away. It didn’t matter. Mehar’s life wasn’t my concern anymore. I had my own life to protect. A kid to raise. My own dreams to build.
I spent the next few hours working on the business plan.
Location research. I needed a storefront in a high-traffic area, somewhere accessible but affordable. Northeast was too expensive. Southeast had potential but the foot traffic was inconsistent. Maybe something in Petworth or Columbia Heights?
Cost projections. Rent. Utilities. Equipment. Ingredients. Packaging. Marketing. The numbers were overwhelming but not impossible. Especially if I could secure a small business loan or find an investor willing to take a chance.
Revenue estimates. Based on the gala and the farmers markets, I had real numbers now. Real proof that people wanted what I was selling. That Sweet Zin could be more than just a side hustle.
By early afternoon, I had a rough draft of a business plan. Nothing polished enough to show anyone yet, but a start. A real start.
I leaned back in my chair and smiled.
This was happening. Really happening.
Then I checked the refrigerator and realized I needed ingredients for dinner. Yusef loved my jerk chicken and I wanted to make something special for him tonight. Maybe it would help him open up. Maybe over a good meal, he’d finally tell me what was going on.
I grabbed my purse and headed out to catch the bus.
The grocery store was crowded for a Monday afternoon.
I moved through the aisles slowly, picking up chicken thighs, scotch bonnet peppers, thyme, allspice. The familiar rhythm of shopping calming my mind.
I added rice, beans, some vegetables for a side. Grabbed a container of vanilla ice cream because Yusef loved it.
The total came to more than I’d planned, but I didn’t care. Tonight we’d have a good meal. We’d sit together. We’d talk.
Everything would be okay.
I caught the bus back home, bags heavy in my hands, watching the city pass by through the smudged window.
It was a little after four when I got off at my stop.
That’s when I heard the sirens.
At first I didn’t think anything of it. Sirens were constant in this neighborhood. Police cars. Ambulances. Fire trucks. Background noise you learned to tune out.
But as I turned the corner toward my building, I saw the lights.
Red and blue. Flashing. Everywhere.
Police cars blocking the street. An ambulance parked at an angle, doors open. Yellow tape stretched across the back side of the building, creating a barrier that a crowd of people was pressing against.
My heart stopped.
I walked faster. Then I was running, grocery bags forgotten on the sidewalk, my lungs burning as I pushed through the crowd.
“What happened?” I grabbed the arm of a woman I recognized from the third floor. “What’s going on?”
Her face was pale. Shocked. “A little boy got shot. Right there behind the building. They found him maybe an hour ago.”
A little boy.
No.
No, no, no.
“Who?” My voice came out as a scream. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know, honey. They haven’t said.”
I pushed forward, shoving through bodies, not caring who I knocked aside. I had to see. Had to know.
Please God. Please. Not Yusef. Not my baby. Please.
I reached the yellow tape and a police officer held up his hand.
“Ma’am, you need to stay back.”
“My son,” I gasped. “My son lives here. I need to know if—”
“Ma’am, I understand, but you need to stay behind the tape.”
“PLEASE.” Tears were streaming down my face. “Please, I need to know if it’s my son.”
Then I saw it.
Past the officer. Past the tape. Past the paramedics who were standing around instead of working, which meant there was nothing left to save.
A small body on the ground, covered by a white sheet.
But the sheet didn’t cover everything.
I could see the feet. The shoes.
Jordans. Brand new Jordans. Red and black. Those were Nigel’s shoes.
I’d seen them a few times. I remember when I first spotted them on his feet. It was at the farmers market.
The relief that it wasn’t Yusef hit me first—a wave so powerful my knees almost buckled.
Then the horror followed.
Nigel. That was Nigel under that sheet.
Brandi’s son. Yusef’s friend. The boy who’d helped me box cinnamon rolls and smiled when customers complimented them.
Dead.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no…”
A scream cut through the air.
I turned to see Brandi running toward the tape, her face twisted with a terror I recognized because I’d felt it seconds ago.
“MY BABY!” She was screaming, fighting against the officers trying to hold her back. “THAT’S MY BABY! LET ME SEE MY BABY!”
“Ma’am, you need to calm down—”
“DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! THAT’S MY SON!” She broke through one officer’s grip, ducked under the tape, got three steps before two more grabbed her. “NIGEL! NIGEL, BABY, MOMMY’S HERE!”
I moved toward her without thinking. Reached for her. Tried to pull her into my arms.
“Brandi, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry—”
“Ma’am.” A female officer stepped between us, separating us firmly. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m her friend. Our sons are friends. Please, let me—”
“I need you to step back. Ms. Thompson needs to speak with the detectives.”
“Brandi!” I called out as they led her away. “I’m here! I’m right here!”
But she wasn’t listening. Wasn’t hearing anything except the sound of her own heart breaking.
I stood there behind the yellow tape, tears streaming down my face, watching them take my friend away from the body of her child.
Sweet, helpful Nigel who’d shown up at the gala in his little black shirt looking so proud to be part of something. Who’d asked intelligent questions about running a business. Who’d been nothing but kind to me and Yusef.
Gone. Just like that.
Who would do this? Who would shoot a twelve-year-old boy?
I thought about all the times Yusef had come home beaten and bruised. All the bullies he’d talked about but never named. All the violence that seemed to follow our children no matter how hard we tried to protect them.
This neighborhood was killing our kids. One way or another, it was killing them.
I wiped my face and turned away from the scene. I needed to find Yusef. Needed to hold him. Needed to make sure he was okay and tell him what happened before he heard it from someone else.
Nigel was his friend. This was going to destroy him.
I walked toward my building on shaking legs, leaving my grocery bags wherever they’d fallen. Food didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered except getting to him. An eerie feeling washed over me as I moved throughout my home.
“Yusef?” I called out, closing the door behind me. “Baby, are you home?”
No answer.
I checked the kitchen. Empty. The living room. Empty. The bathroom door was open, no one inside.
“Yusef?”
My heart started pounding again. That same fear from the crime scene creeping back in.
I walked down the short hallway to his bedroom. The door was closed.
“Yu? You in there?”
Nothing.
I pushed the door open.
And my world stopped.
Yusef was sitting on the edge of his bed. Still in his school clothes. Still wearing his jacket like he’d never taken it off.
His hands were in his lap.
And in his hands was my gun.