Page 79 of Kentrell

Taffy.

Yam.

Kendra.

Pokie.

My mama.

Everybody had something to say—or something they weren’t saying.

But right now, I needed to talk to the one person who’d been there when all this shit started. The one person who might actually give me the truth, whether it hurt or not.

My mama.

I didn’t call the prison line. I had her caseworker’s extension and she had my name down for unscheduled visits. I’d used that favormaybe once.

Until now.

I pulled into a dark corner lot, cut the engine, and tapped the number with my thumb. The phone barely rang before someone picked up.

“LaShonda Pierce?—”

“It’s Kentrell Caldwell. I need to speak with Shaniece Johnson face-to-face. Today. Tell her I’m on the way.”

The voice on the other end paused like she knew better than to question me.

“Understood. We’ll notify her. Arrival ETA?”

“An hour.”

I hung up.

This wasn’t a check-in. This wasn’t just another son coming to see his mama.

This was different.

Today, I wanted the truth.

Thewholetruth.

Because after what I’d just heard—about Zoe, about Kenny, about Yam—I couldn’t move another step in the dark.

And if my mama had even one more secret left in her?

She was gonna have to hand it over.

EIGHT

ZOE

I was finally home.

My little brownstone on Drexel and 54th, just far enough from the noise to breathe, but close enough to the heartbeat of the city to never feel too far from it.

I’d dropped my blazer and heels at the door, kicked off the day, and made a direct path to the first of three floralarrangements that had shown up at my office today. I had Rachel call for an assistant to drop them off before I left the office, anticipating this very moment.

White ranunculus. Pale blush roses. Calla lilies. Eucalyptus. All in elegant matte-black glass vases, no card. Just beauty, intentional and unannounced.

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