Page 90 of Kandie Shoppe

At first, nothing looks awry. Kandie’s loft is pristine, as it always is. Her bed made. Maybe she went to the doll house or Mama-Pete’s. After what transpired between us, I doubt she thinks I would follow her. She’d be wrong. Not that I can blame her with the way I fucked up things.

Walking deeper into the room, I notice she took up residence in the reading nook. There is a blue covered book using the arm of the chair as a place holder. I pick it up reading the back, it’s about a firewoman who mistakenly reads the private journal of a hockey player and romantic shenanigans ensue. The smirk dies on my lips when I see the miniscule listening device adhered to the underside of one of her bookshelves. I pull it off, noticing the cord it’s attached to. Following its path with my finger, I find a camera.

He’s been watching her. Minutes tick by as I find several more all over the small apartment. He took his time. He must have done it when she was out at the Honey Love Farm.

I feel sick heading to her bathroom. No longer do I think that she came and left. The bathroom tells the story. There’s a smattering of blood on the floor. It’s like she was fighting for her life. Toiletries are thrown everywhere. The towel rack is all but ripped out of the wall, one side torn out, the other dangling by a prayer. I watch as the towel drops to the floor, the blood soaking through the white terrycloth.

Turning in a slow circle, I catalog everything I see. This is a crime scene. Taking out my phone, I take pictures. Looking down on the floor, I see an impression of a boot print. He must have got blood on him, or hopefully she got some licks in. Knowing my girl, I know she did.

“What’s up?” Angel says over the line, picking up as soon as I call.

“Get all your people. Someone took Kandie.” As the words leave my mouth, I have to swallow back the sheer terror racingfrom my gut to throat. I know I sound guttural. I’m shaking with rage. Guilt and regret eat at me like acid.

“On it.” Hanging up, I know I won’t have to bother telling him to let the other two men know.

Grimacing, I call Pa-Pete.

“Yeah?” comes the deep baritone over the line.

“It’s Ulysses.” I hear him sigh.

“She’s ain’t here and if she was, I wouldn’t tell your trifling ass no way,” he grumbles. “Angel ain’t letting your ass come out this way where his family resides,” he says with cold finality.

“I know all that, old man. Someone took Kandie. I’m handling it, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.” Letting him digest that information, I wait for him to rail at me for not keeping her safe, for being the one who ran her off in the first place.

“Imma send the boys over to help,” he says after a moment, only he sounds deadlier than I’ve ever heard. Everyone knows that Mama-Pete was the strategist when they ran the southern underground, but Pa-Pete was the deadliest and most efficient boss of these parts until they bequeathed the enterprise to Angel.

“Yes, sir,” I say, a feeling of relief gathering around me knowing I will have the necessary back-up.

“This ain’t no police type of business, son. You handle them like you did those boys that hurt my grandbaby before,” he commands, like he’s no more retired than Angel is.

“I’m going to lay this motherfucker down,” I swear.

“Well, alright then.” Ending the call, I step out of the bathroom, my heart feeling like it’s been cleaved in two with one of the machetes we use to cut the sugar cane.

Walking back into the loft. I feel the violation of having a stranger watch us all the times we made love. Listening to our conversations meant only for us. The breakfasts in her smallkitchen. Her reading in the recliner while I sat sprawled at her feet with one leg draped over my shoulder.

Stalking back over to the pile of listening devices, I crush them in my grip with a promise. “I will find you. You will regret touching what’s mine, bitch.”

“This isa blow-up of the shoe print. He’s going to have bruises not readily explained, possibly around his neck and face. He may even have bite marks. We want to keep this quiet. No one outside of this room and her immediate family knows she’s missing. He’s going to ask to gauge how much we know. Anyone who asks where she is a suspect — man, woman, I don’t care. They could be using anyone to try to get information about her. Outside, everyone’s a suspect,” I tell the men and women gathered.

“How you know this sick motherfucker ain’t going to kill her?” Nebraska seethes, his brother Oz on FaceTime looking on the phone he has.

“He finally has her. He’s not going to kill her. He wants to take his time with his prize.” I don’t say what else he could be possibly doing. I don’t let my mind go there. I was already about to implode with the knowledge of what he’s already done from the evidence of the savage fight that took place in her loft bathroom.

I don’t care what it takes. That motherfucker is going to pay for what he’s done. My chest tightens with me, telling her to stay the fuck away from me moments before all this went down. It’s obvious from the vomit in her toilet she was getting sick as she was attacked. In that weakened state, I’m surprised she even put up the fight that she did and I’m the prouder of her for it.

“So go on as normal, but be aware?” Nikademus asks looking skeptical.

“Yeah, if they sense we are on to them, they may panic and kill her,” Angel answers before I can. Pa-Pete may have confidence in me, but the rest of the Love men don’t — not after what went down at the gravesite. A few of them are even eying me crossways, like I’m the prime suspect.

“So what happens when she doesn’t open up the bakery? And people start calling around for orders?” Oz asks over the line, still mad that he was told to hang back. If he came here, we agree everyone would know something was up.

“She’s back on the Honey Love Farm after breaking up with this motherfucker,” Nebraska says, tilting his head in my direction.

I swear every Love male mean mugs me at the same time. I eye everyone, knowing if I don’t I’d follow the soon to be kidnapper in the ground.

“She’s mine. We’re working shit out.” Chiseled jaws clench when I don’t waver. Low curses are muttered even one or two have to stop others from stepping forward.

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