Page 73 of Kentrell

She sighed dramatically. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I like what’s mine lookin’ good, even when I can’t see it.”

Another silence. This one thicker.

Then—

“I think I’ll order a pizza tonight,” she said absently, like her thoughts had floated off.

My brows lifted.

Simple. Easy. Innocent.

But I made a mental note anyway.

Café Vervé in the morning. Pizza at night. She was a creature of habit, and I was learning her rhythm.

Just as I stepped out of the truck and locked the door, I heard a knock through the speaker.

“Come in,” Zoe called faintly.

Then to me: “Kentrell, I gotta go.”

I nodded to no one, my smirk fading.

“Aight.”

She didn’t hang up right away.

Neither did I.

Just a moment of breath between us.

Then she ended the call.

I stared at the screen for half a second, then slipped the phone into my pocket and turned toward the building.

It was time to see whathewas on.

I shoved the phone in my pocket and stepped onto the curb. The concrete was slick beneath my boots, dusted with the kind of snow that barely stuck but still made everything look touched by silence.

The air hit me sharp—cool and brisk, the kind of cold that crept down the back of your neck and made your shoulders bunch without you noticing.

Winter wasn’t in full swing yet, but Chicago was already flexing.

I scanned the block like I always did. Same liquor store across the street. Same old head perched on the stoop two doors down. But something in the air felt...off.

Still.

Too still.

It was the kind of quiet that didn’t sit right.

Didn’t belong here.

And suddenly, I heard her voice again—my mama—clear as if she was standing next to me.

“Just... watch your back, son. Streets feel different lately.”

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