Page 136 of Collateral Love
Make sure she remembers what happens if she gets sentimental.
Below that was a contact name.
Sharon Davis
Channy sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt to hear.
“That’s… that’s Mom.”
I didn’t say anything.
X scrolled.
Another message.
Charles:
Your moms is still holding onto guilt about the boy. Says it keeps her awake.
Cameron: Always choosin’ her other fuckin kids over me. Good. Guilt makes people loyal.
X tapped into the attachments.
An audio file.
Time-stamped years ago.
A woman’s voice filled the night — older, sharp, trembling just enough to sound believable.
“I told the police Jared had a temper. I told them he talked crazy when he was upset. I didn’t say he did it. I just eluded to the fact they he might have. Alan, what the fuck was I supposed to do? He found out about us, and I couldn’t let him tell his dad. We leverage so much drug money through that fuckin church.”
Channy covered her mouth.
I felt something cold settle behind my ribs.
Kenya walked downstairs, tears streaming down her face.
“Mom was fucking Professor Price, and she got Jared put away on purpose?”
“And apparently Cameron is her daughter.” Channy cried.
I hadto confront my mom. I couldn’t believe that the sick bitch was away from her own son. I knew there wasn’t much affection between her and my father. The affair didn’t shock me. Hell, her using the church he loved and behold closely wasn’t a shock either, but betraying her own flesh and blood was low.
But before I would say anything to her, her access had to be cut off.
Accounts were locked. Charles was gone. Miles was handled and locked away. Zayden would keep him alive to bait Cameron, but after that, he would die a slow and painful death. Traitors always did.
Cameron was somewhere out there, thinking she was still the final boss.
But Sharon?
I wouldn’t bring her to our house.
I wasn’t about to let her poison the place where my beautiful twin girls lay their heads.
So Zayden and I chose a neutral spot to bring her in, the old rec center on the North End, the one that used to host church lock-ins and cheap dance classes before the city cut funding and let it rot. Zayden bought the building years ago and never put his name on it. To the city, it was vacant. To us, it was a quiet room with good acoustics and better exits.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, as if irritated to still be alive. The folding chair beneath me creaked when I shifted. I could smell dust, bleach, and a faint trace of old sweat.
