Page 181 of When a Soul Cries

“Khalil.”

I took off toward the kitchen before that big motherfucker could get up with the baby in his arms.

Behind me, his voice followed, low enough not to scare Halo but irritated enough to make me laugh even harder.

“Keep fucking playing!”

Yeah.

My brother was cooked.

And the funniest part?

His big dumb ass didn’t even know it yet.

A week.

Seven whole days had passed since I walked into Roman’s house carrying my daughter and damn near nothing else.

Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night and forgot where I was.

For a few seconds, I would lie completely still beneath the soft comforter, staring through the darkness while my heart beat too fast. Then I would hear the quiet hum of the air conditioner or see the faint light slipping beneath the bedroom door, and everything would come rushing back.

The motel.

Aunt Trice.

Rome.

The ride here.

The shower that first night.

The food.

The bed.

Safety.

That last one was still taking some getting used to.

I had spent so much time worrying about what was going to happen next that being somewhere I didn’t have to constantly look over my shoulder almost made me uncomfortable.

Rome’s house was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that made me afraid to leave a glass sitting on a table without a coaster.

The ceilings were high, the windows stretched almost from the floor to the ceiling, and everything had this clean, dark, masculine look to it. Black fixtures. Deep brown wood. Oversized furniture. Artwork that probably cost more than my old car.

Even the damn guest bathroom looked expensive.

For the first few days, I moved around his house like a visitor.

I cleaned up behind myself immediately. Straightened the bed every morning. Wiped down counters I hadn’t dirtied. Folded blankets after Halo crawled over them.

Rome never said anything about it.