“An hour. I’ll be home soon with very important company.” I take a deep sigh. Jonah put me in a difficult place by requesting Luxury’s removal.
“I see. Miss Whitson. Now, Victor, please clarify. Are you referring tohomeas in Arlington or Somerhaven?”
It takes every fiber in me to reply.
11
Luxury
Paranoid, I slowly drape Victor’s peacoat over the chair in my room. Assessing it with narrowed eyes, I scooch the coal-colored coat to the left, praying that’s the same position it had been in before I touched it. I step toward the dresser, where the gun I removed from the inside pocket awaits my next reckless decision.
Girl, you’re running out of time.I heft up the handgun. Power weighs heavily in my palm.Is it a Glock or a 9mm? Are those the same gun?I’ve seen them in the movies, a standard for the good guys and bad guys alike.
Cold.
Heavy.
Hard.
Surely, Victor has used this very weapon when taking lives. But the gun belongs to me now.
“This is for Momma.” I straighten my spine, sliding my index finger onto the trigger. “Okay, Luxxie, you only recall Uncle Red as someone you can go to foranything.Just talk to him and hope it doesn’t come to . . . this.”
I tell myself that bringing Victor’s gun is only a precautionary measure as I place it in the front pocket of my NYU hoodie and approach the window seat, which overlooks the fire escape. The wrought iron steps have almost dried from the morning rain, and the moonlight glints off the fencing.
Up and down the street, people are in their homes, cooking dinners, perhaps preparing for the same old routine tomorrow.If you get caught, Luxxie, your life will be even more mundane. Behind friggen bars.
There’s no time for fear. I lift one leg out the window and slowly press my Niked foot against the wrought iron. Then the next. Mom offers a bit of courage, too, as I stroll down the block toward the bus stop, pulling the hoodie over my head.
God, please forgive me.If Uncle Red hurt Momma, then he doesn’t deserve...to live. If he did not, he must now understand I’m at my friggen wit's end.
My leg jitters, and my breath fogs the chilly air. I keep glancing over my shoulder at my building.
I couldn’t bring Vic with me.
He rarely listens, so I don’t expect he’d give Uncle Red the benefit of the doubt.
Gears grind as the city bus stalls a foot away. I dish out change, clutching the gun in my opposite hand beneath my hoodie, and climb up the steps.
Fifteen minutes into the ride, my cell phone vibrates uncontrollably, but my mind needs to get into that dark place. I go back to the day that I found Mom’s dead body.
The life I led ended the day I came to our home in Harlem to find her in a puddle of blood. I’d sunk to my knees, claimed by heartache, and pulled her stiff, lifeless body, violated by a trillion brutal stab wounds to me.
With a glance outside the window, I notice that I’m getting closer to my destination. I’m drawing closer to Dr. Charles Everhart. Though my cell phone pulses incessantly, I keep my mind trained on the pain. The pain of the past. Death becomes bile rising from the pit of my stomach. I choke back the sourness. Every time I blink, Gina’s lifeless brown eyes stare back at me. As the bus continues to make stops, my fingertips caress her eyelids. My jaw clenches. I fight back tears. Malice abrades the dejection, worming through my gut.
The bus lurches to a stop at my designated stop. I’m on autopilot, clinging to my nightmare. As I stand up and head to the bus's back door, I pull out my phone from my back jean pocket.
“Yes, Vic.” I assume an eerie, calm tone that mimics Victor’s in the past. Yes, I can be a cold-blooded killer. I’ve fucked one.
“Luxury, I’ve looked for you for over an hour. It’s dark, sweetheart.” His tone mollifies me.
“Sorry, I couldn’t talk.”
“Little One, where are you?”
“About two blocks from Uncle Re—” I pause, gulping down the nickname I have for him. I need to stave off the anger. “Dr. Charles Everhart’s lab.”
When I find Charles, I’ll listen. Observe him for any signs that he hurt my momma. Then he’s dead.