Page 32 of Kentrell

Birth certificate: only her mama’s name—Zora Davis.

Immunization records stacked alongside academic reports like she’d been under the spotlight since grade school. Valedictorian in high schoolandcollege. Girl was smart, no question. The type that didn’t miss.

And then there was that blank criminal record. Not even a parking ticket. I rubbed my thumb over the clean page, my thoughts catching up to me. Shewasas good as she looked. Maybe too good for somebody like me.

That thought sat in my gut like bad liquor.

Would a girl like that even give a nigga like me the time of day if she knew what I really did? What I reallywas?

Last night, I’d watched her fold into herself—wrapping her arms around her body like she needed armor. She couldn’t hold eye contact, kept her head down when folks looked too long. But today? Today, she looked calm. Professional. Locked in. That girl ain’t used to attention, and she sure as hell don’t dress like she’s tryna pull it.

At least, not from what I saw in them K-Reese bags.

Shirts, jackets, pants—clean cuts, dark colors, quiet taste. Then there was that damn pink catsuit. Like a loud-ass secret sitting in the middle of everything else. I still couldn’t figure out what made her choose it—or if she even remembered adding it to the cart. But it didn’t fit the rest of her. Or maybe it did. Maybe it was the one piece that showed me she wasn’t as untouched as she looked.

He tracked everything.

Zoe’s old addresses. Her mama’s place. Her cousin Ayesha. Even an aunt. All of them posted up within a few blocks of eachother like they’d carved out a corner of Hyde Park and claimed it for themselves.

He had the BMW 540i she drove—black on black, of course—and noted the exact dealership where she bought it. From routine grocery runs to late-night linkups with her girls—Mars, Stacia, and Ayesha—every detail laid out like a blueprint. He even knew which men had shot their shot and got curved, one after the other.

That part made me smirk. Her rap sheet was clean, and apparently, so was her dating life. Cold streak like that? Just made me want her more.

I flipped through the folder, my mind already spinning scenarios, until I hit a page that stopped me cold.

The photo slapped something loose in me.

Hazel eyes. Warm, brown skin. Something about the way she looked out from that picture hit like déjà vu dipped in unease. I’d seen that face before. Felt it. But where?

My chest tightened as the memory danced just outta reach, like smoke slipping through my fingers. I tried to summon a name, a moment—anything—but all I got was static. She wasn’t some random face in the crowd. She meant something. Or used to.

Malcolm must’ve caught the shift in my face. His whole energy changed.

“What is it?” he asked, voice clipped with tension. His eyes narrowed, like he already knew I’d seen a ghost.

I kept my scowl locked in place, trying not to let on how deep it rattled me.

I turned the folder toward him, tapping the photo with two fingers. “Who is this?”

I needed the answer. But something told me I wasn’t gonna like it.

But that’s when Malcolm’s whole expression twisted—disappointment laced with something darker, almost bitter.

“That’s Zora Davis,” he said, the name hitting the air like a stone tossed in still water—silent, heavy, and deep.

I looked down at the photo again, studying her face like I hadn’t just been staring at it for the past minute. She wasn’t just familiar—she had seen me before. Knew me. I could feel that.

“I’d have you do her in, too,” Malcolm added, voice dipping into something colder. “But her misery and pain? That’s payment enough.”

Then he laughed.

Low and cruel. Like he was the only one in on the joke.

That shit didn’t sit right. I’d been hired to handle personal matters before—take out a cheating spouse, a rival, even a family member. But this? This wasn’t just about putting Zoe down. This was about hurting everybody around her.

He was sending a message.

“Do you know her?” Malcolm’s voice slid back into my thoughts, trying to fish something out of me.

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