Page 129 of Vega

My mother removed her sunglasses slowly. “Who is Jamir?”

“This tech guy. He’s good. Better than the PI I hired.”

When Jamir was mentioned during the Street Kings’ last meeting, I realized that he could help get the answers I needed much quicker. So, I fired my PI. Jamir could find inside information most people wouldn’t even know existed. A PI could ask questions, but Jamir could find the answers before the wrong person realized somebody was looking. He was expensive as hell and told me I would still have to have some patience because Cartier business came first, but he assured me he could find the answers no one else could.

“He said he can find Renzo faster if there’s anything digital to trace, like old records, fake names, accounts, property, phone data, anything.”

The gitty haze that my mother had completely vanished. Renee noticed and put her attention on the pool.

“Prodigy,” my mother sighed, “Let it go. That man left.”

“You believe that?”

“I know that.”

“No, you accepted that.”

She sighed, saying, “Your father ran from responsibility. He ran from fatherhood. I know you don’t want to hear that, but searching for a man who chose to leave will only reopen wounds that took years to close.”

“They never closed.”

She sighed again, running her fingers through her long, black tresses.

“His disappearance never made sense,” I reminded her.

“Because you remember him through a child’s eyes.”

“I remember patterns.”

“Prodigy—”

“No. I remember him. I remember him walking me to school. I remember him taking me to the park. I remember him checking my homework and sitting on my bed until I fell asleep at night when I was scared. I remember him being involved every day until he vanished.”

My mother looked away, frustrated but trying to be sympathetic.

“Men lie about love all the time,” I said. “They’ll tell a woman anything to get what they want. But children remember patterns. A man can fake a weekend. He can fake a few gifts. He can’t fake showing up every damn day for years and then disappear without the pattern changing first.”

Renee sat quietly, sipping her champagne, watching our conversation without giving her opinion, respectfully.

“Did he pack bags?” I asked my mother.

“No,” she answered unwillingly.

“Did he empty accounts?”

“No.”

“Did he move different before he left? Did he stop calling? Stop coming home? Stop wanting me?”

Her lips pressed together. “He was under pressure. I don’t know why. His attitude just changed. He seemed more stressed. That’s why I know that he left because he didn’t want the responsibility. We were broke and young. You think I’m trying to stop you because I don’t care?”

“I think you accepted an answer that never made sense.”

Her eyes watered, but she didn’t let one tear fall. “Because sometimes accepting an answer is the only way you survive it.”

“That don’t make it true.”

“No,” she said quietly. “But it made it possible for me to keep breathing. It made it possible for me to get out of bed. It made it possible for me to raise you without falling apart every time you looked at the door waiting on him to come back.” She set her glass down on the small table beside her. “You think you were the only one who lost him?”