Page 72 of Riot

Soft cotton joggers in blush and lavender. Fitted crop tops in shades of caramel and moss. A silky green two-piece set that shimmered like oil in the light. Jeans with stretch. Rompers. Wrap dresses. A burnt orange hoodie so plush it felt like a hug.

For ten years, I only wore white. Every day. Every week. Every month. A uniform of purity that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with control. Seeing these clothes, with their boldness and texture and warmth, felt like breathing in technicolor.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, then held a dress to my chest and caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a stranger. But the good kind. The kind you wanted to know better.

“I didn’t know your style, so I just grabbed a little bit of everything.”

I turned.

Riot was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes slid down my towel-wrapped frame, then back up to my face—never lingering too long, never crossing that line.

Still, my pulse skipped.

“I love it,” I said, smiling for real. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Figured you might want some options. You don’t gotta wear my sweats forever.”

I laughed. “Even though they’re comfy as hell.”

“They look good on you, but now you’ve got stuff that’s all yours.”

There was a brief pause, and then he rubbed his jaw. “I gotta go check on my mom. She hasn’t been doing too well lately.”

My smile faltered just slightly. “Is she sick?”

“Something has been off and I gotta go see about her.” He exhaled.

“Do you want company?” I asked.

He raised a brow, surprised. “You tryna ride with me?”

“I could use some fresh air. Get out the compound for a bit.”

“Aight. Cool. I just gotta make a few calls first.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Take your time. We’ll head out in a bit.”

He disappeared down the hall, and I let the towel drop to get dressed.

I chose a pink dress that highlighted the shimmering undertones of my dark skin. The fabric hugged my body in all the right places. I ran a brush through my hair, then wrapped it in the silk scarf Abra must’ve picked out, and slipped on the new Tory Birch slides sitting in one of the bags.

Then I turned my attention to the iPhone Riot left charging for me.

It powered up instantly, the screen clean and untouched. I took a deep breath and set it up, hands trembling slightly as I logged in and created a new Apple ID. New email. New number. New identity.

This was my first connection to the outside world in ten years.

I opened Facebook and logged into my fake profiles that I created yesterday. My mother wasn’t on Facebook consistently but I had other family members I could reach out to. My fingers hovered over the search bar. I typed in my cousin’s name, Diori Jones.

Dozens of profiles appeared. I narrowed it down by city, by mutual friends, by age.

Finally, I found one that looked right. Her profile was public, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw a recent selfie. Same almond-shaped eyes. Same full lips. I would’ve known her anywhere.

I clickedMessage.

Hey… I don’t know if you’ll believe this. But it’s Allure. I’m alive. Please don’t freak out. I need help getting in contact with my mom… or Carmelo. Can you help me? Please?

I hit send before I could overthink it.

Then I sat there, phone in hand, heart racing, waiting for a response.

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