Page 145 of Collateral Love
The next morning, the sky was that pale gray that made everything look washed out.
I dressed simply in black sweats, a black hoodie, my favorite gold hoops, and Nike Air Max sneakers. Nothing flashy, just YaYa going to pick up her big brother from the place that stole his twenties and thirties and half his forties.
In the foyer, Chanel adjusted her blazer for the third time.
“You don’t have to dress like a closing argument,” I told her.
She shot me a look. “Yes, I do. What if the correctional officers try to fuck with us if they don’t know I’m an attorney?”
Xavier came down the stairs behind her, in a white tee, gray sweats, and a black hoodie hanging open, with a chain tucked. He looked like any other Crestwood Nigga headed to the corner store. Only his eyes betrayed him. They were sharp, scanning, ready to end something if it moved wrong.
I should’ve known his damn brother wasn’t letting us ride alone.
Camilla arrived last. She stepped in from the porch like a storm had followed her, curls pinned up messy, big gold hoops, white tee knotted at the waist, ripped jeans, sneakers, and light makeup with lip gloss, eyes bare and too bright.
She looked way too good to be taking a five-hour drive.
“Morning,” she said, with a tight smile.
“Why are you so dressed up I teased?” I asked her.
She rolled her eyes. “I missed him, too, YaYa.”
Zay had the car running, the low hum of the black Yukon filling the driveway like a warning. Two other trucks followed, staggered behind us, not close enough to draw attention, not far enough to lose. Since my kidnapping, Zay and X hadn’t been taking any shortcuts with our safety.
We rode mostly in silence.
X sat in the back row, hood up, AirPods in, but I knew there wasn’t any music playing. Chanel stared out the window, fingers worrying the edge of a manila folder in her lap. Camilla sat beside me, both hands wrapped around a bottle of water she hadn’t opened.
The Prison gates always looked the same.
It didn't matter the state, the architecture, or the color of the concrete. They all shared that vibration as if they were designed to hold more than bodies. Hope got stuck in there, too.
We parked where the lawyer had told us, out of range of the main cameras but close enough to see the exit doors.
Our attorney Miller was already waiting, suit crisp, eyes tired.
“Paperwork’s done,” he said, handing me a clipboard. “You just need to sign as next of kin.”
I signed.
“Media?” Zay asked.
“Got held at the outer checkpoint,” Miller said. “Somebody in there doesn’t want a circus.”
“Somebody in there owes me money,” Zay corrected under his breath.
We waited.
Waiting was the worst part.
The big steel door didn’t open with drama. It just… clicked, then swung open.
A guard stepped out first.
Then Jared.
For a second, my brain refused to reconcile the man in front of me with the brother in my memory.
