31. Nairobi, Noir
NAIROBI, NOIR
SENIOR YEAR
S he woke up already tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from thoughts stacking on top of each other until they feel heavier than the body holding them.
The festival had been looping in her head for the last week. The moment she told Preston about the moment she could never forget. The moment she hadn’t said anything. The moment she’d chosen quiet instead of questions.
Her ceiling fan turned lazily above her, chopping the morning light into uneven pieces.
Spring lay there, staring up at it, replaying the drive back.
Preston’s careful silence, his questions about her dad – the way her dad disappeared for a stretch of time on Thursdays and came back smelling like something that didn’t belong to their house.
She sat up.
It didn’t make sense, and that was the part that bothered her most.
Everyone had been in town for the festival. If her dad was working, who exactly was he working with?
She pushed the thought away and went through the motions of getting ready for the day – a hoodie she liked because it felt like armor, jeans she’d broken in enough to feel like herself again. She stood in front of the mirror longer than usual, studying her own face.
Her dad knocked once before opening the door.
“You up?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.”
He leaned against the frame, tie half-done, jacket folded over his arm. He looked put together but ill at ease. “I’ll drop you off on my way,” he said. Then, almost casually, “Don’t forget, it’s Thursday. I’ve got to drive up to Beaumont for work. Gonna be a late night.”
Thursday.
The word landed harder than it should have.
She nodded. “Okay.”
He crossed the room and kissed her cheek, lingering. “Love you,” he said.
“Love you too.”
The door closed behind him, and the quiet rushed back in.
She stood there for a second longer, hoodie half-zipped, heart doing that thing it did when it didn’t want to believe something but didn’t know how not to. She touched her necklace twice to shield herself from her thoughts.
On the drive to school, she watched the city pass by with a new kind of attention. She read billboards, looked down side streets, watched cars pulling out of parking lots. Everyone going somewhere, belonging somewhere.
Her dad hummed along to the radio – soft, distracted. She wondered who else he did that around.
At a red light, she almost asked.
Instead, she stared out the window and counted breaths. When he pulled up to the curb, he reached over and squeezed her hand. “Have a good day, okay?”
“I will.”
She stepped out, the car rolling away before she’d fully closed the door.
As she walked toward the building, the noise of school swallowed her – lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someone shouting a name down the hall. Normal. Loud. Safe.
And still, something felt off.
She paused at the entrance and looked back once more at the street where her dad’s car had been moments ago.
Thursday, she thought. Beaumont. Work.
The words she’d been hearing for over a year didn’t line up yet, but they were starting to form a shape.
And Spring had always been good at seeing shapes others couldn’t.
She spotted Preston before she meant to.
He was by the lockers near the music wing, backpack slung low, laughing at something Brian said – but the laugh cut short the moment he saw her. His face went stiff, bracing.
She walked straight to him anyway. “Hey, you got a second?” she asked.
He glanced at the hallway clock, then back at her. “Yeah. What’s up?”
She didn’t ease into it. That wasn’t her style. “I want to go to Beaumont again.”
“You guys have another boudin festival or?—”
“I need to know what my dad does on Thursdays.”
Preston’s expression shifted, careful now.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I think whatever he’s doing with Mr. Yabluidbytch it happens on Thursdays.”
He exhaled slowly. “Spring?—”
“I don’t know what Russians have to do with my mom,” she rushed on, words tumbling. “I know how it sounds. But today’s Thursday. He’s driving to Beaumont again. Everybody else was in town during the festival, Preston. Everybody.”
He ran a hand over his face. “Are you sure about this? You might be mixing things up.”
“Am I?” she challenged. “Because I remember her voice. I remember how mad she was. And it wasn’t just anger – it was disgust. And it was definitely a Russian name.”
He hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, “What exactly do you remember her saying?”
She sighed. “She just kept yelling you had your meeting with Yabluidbytch. Yabluidbytch., I’m certain it’s Russian or at least Eastern European. Maybe he’s working for the Russian mafia?”
“Why would the Bratva be in Beaumont, Texas, Spring?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, I’ll have an answer if we just go up there.”
He tried to offer an out. “You know I’m on your side, but we can’t skip two weeks in a row. Besides, if I’m being honest, after having being there, I’m pretty sure there are no Russians doing anything in that town.”
“Then what was my mom saying, then?”
“I don’t know. I mean, are you absolutely sure you heard her right?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m just saying. Stress. Emotion. People hear wrong all the time in moments like that.”
She shook her head. “No. It stuck.”
He searched for the right words, tossing a few half-formed ideas into the air, then finally said it – soft, almost testing: “What if she said something else though?”
“What are you talking about?”
Preston shrugged. “I don’t know. What if what you heard wasn’t what you think. Like, it’s not a Russian name.”
“My dad does legal work for Gazprom, it’s one of the biggest Russian oil and gas companies in the world.”
“True, and knowing you the way I do, I’m sure you’ve already looked at their company directory. You didn’t find any Yabluidbytchs working there, so what if it isn’t a name. What if it was like… a description or something.”
“What? That sounds crazy.”
“But what if it’s not? You said she was mad, right? You said you had your headphones on. What if she was saying something fast like ‘your blue-eyed bitch’?”
The hallway noise seemed to drop away.
Spring froze.
Her first instinct was defense. “I know what my mother said.”
“I’m not saying you don’t,” he replied quickly. “I’m just saying… sometimes our brains try to organize pain into something cleaner than it was.”
She stared at him, jaw clenched. “That lines up too well for you to say it casually.”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’ve heard folks say worse in arguments.”
She crossed her arms, suddenly cold. “You don’t get to rewrite that night for me.”
“I’m not trying to, I swear,” he said. “I’m trying to keep you from chasing something that might hurt you more.”
That did it.
Her eyes flashed. “I want you to drive me to Beaumont.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Today,” she said. “After school. Or now. I don’t care.”
He looked at the clock again, then back at her. “I can’t skip today. I’ve got a final.”
“You could,” she shot back. “You just don’t want to.”
“That’s not fair. We literally almost got our asses handed to us for last week. No way we aren’t being watched today.”
“This is important.”
“So is my grade, and yours,” he said, more firmly now. “And you know that.”
She searched his face, looking for the Preston she knew – the one who’d follow her anywhere just to see what she saw. He was still there, but different. Careful. Rooted.
“Fine,” she said, stepping back. “I’ll figure it out myself.”
“Spring—”
But she was already turning away.
“I know what my momma said,” she huffed as she marched down the hallway. She didn’t slow down until she hit the stairwell. Her window was closing and she could feel it. Her hands were shaking when she pulled out her phone. Where you at? I need you.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. She cursed under her breath.
Cameron: In class. Can’t move. What’s up?
She typed, erased, typed again. It’s about my mom.
No reply.
She didn’t wait.
She headed toward the common area instead, scanning faces until she spotted Brian leaning against a vending machine, earbuds in, eyebrows drawn like the world had already irritated him before lunch.
“Hey,” she said.
He glanced up. “Don’t start.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You and Preston just had a fight,” he said flatly. “I know because I got three texts about it already. This school is small, Spring. If anybody sees you leaving with me right now, it’s gonna be a whole thing.”
She exhaled sharply. “I don’t give a shit about gossip.”
He laughed once, humorless. “You say that until it’s your name getting dragged.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Brian, I have a lead on my mom’s death.”
That stopped him. His expression shifted – not curiosity yet, but concern.
“What kind of lead?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “That’s the problem. I just know something doesn’t add up, and today might be the only chance I get to look into it.”
He shook his head immediately. “Nope. I’m not getting involved in that.”
“Please,” she said, the word quiet but loaded.
He looked away. “I’m serious,” he continued. “That’s grown-folks business. Messy grown-folks business.”
“I know,” she said. “But it’s my mom.”
That did it.
He looked back at her then – saw the way her hands were clenched inside her sleeves, the way her eyes were too sharp for someone pretending to be fine. “My mom died when I was young too,” he said slowly. “Different reasons. Same kind of hole.”
She didn’t speak.
“You go digging,” he added, “you don’t always like what you find.”
“I already don’t like what I don’t know.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed. “Damn it,” he muttered. “You owe me for this.”
“I know.”
He pulled his hoodie up. “If anybody asks, we went to get lunch.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He took a step, then paused. “You sure you want to do this without Preston?”
She hesitated for a second. “Yeah.”
Brian didn’t say he believed her. He just said, “Let’s go, before I change my mind.”