Page 75 of Collateral Love

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I texted what little I had.

He hung up.

Waiting felt like drowning.

I paced the length of my little apartment until the carpet felt worn under my feet. Every scenario I’d ever mapped ran through my head. Worst-case first. That was the rule.

I imagined Talia dead in some abandoned building.

I imagined campus police getting tipped, a body being found, or an investigation launched.

I imagined every fragile line I’d built snapping under the weight of one wrong move.

And all of it traced back to me.

An hour later, my phone buzzed.

Zay.

“Hello?” I answered.

“She’s alive,” he said.

My knees almost buckled.

“Where is she?” I rasped.

“At the hospital. Broken rib, fractured wrist, concussion. They roughed her up, but she’s breathing.”

I closed my eyes.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Some little off-brand Niggas from Eastside who thought they could expand,” he said, voice tight. “They noticed the west lot was quiet, figured your runner was free game. They don’t understand infrastructure. They just see opportunity.”

I swallowed.

“Did you?—”

“They won’t be a problem,” he said flatly.

I believed him.

Silence stretched.

“You mad?” I asked quietly.

He let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.

“Kenya,” he said, “I ain’t got enough time in the day to explain how dumb that solo move was.”

“I ran the math?—”

“And you ignored the people,” he said. “You ain’t tell me. You ain’t tell X. You didn’t bring nobody in. You ain’t give me the chance to cover the gap you created. That’s not system building. That’s you trying to outrun your own distress of people, and I thought we were better than that.”

His voice was eerily calm, which made this feel worse.

“I was protecting everyone,” I argued weakly.

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