“I really need to talk to you again, Sweet,” Micah says.

“Is there a problem, Micah?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

He opens the limo door. “How ’bout you take a ride with us and we’ll discuss some things.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” I ask. The gun is still hiding in my purse, but it’s no use to me now. No matter where I aim or fire, there will be another man, with another gun, and the driver is undoubtedly armed as well.

“What if you don’t want to?” Micah laughs and translates for Javier in Russian-accented Spanish. Javier’s smile broadens a little more.

“Sweet,” Micah says as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “What did I tell you the other night? You have an obligation to live. Don’t make choices that will undermine that objective.”

“Móntate en el coche,” Javier says, as if I am now the one who needs a translator.

Slowly I walk to the car. In the background I hear Mary muttering to herself. My phone vibrates as I approach the door but Micah takes it out of my hand before I can even look at it.

“Well, look at this! Now Lander really is texting! He says he just had a dream about you. Aw, that sounds nice.”

I don’t say anything. Instead I just stand there looking at the car’s interior, wondering about what lies ahead.

“Maybe we should call him up, make it a foursome.” Micah laughs. His laugh sounds warm, even friendly.

I’ve been so stupid.

Micah tucks my phone into his coat pocket as I get into the car.

It’s funny, but it’s Lander I’m thinking about as the car carries us away. It’s his face that I’d like to see again more than all the others.

But now . . . it seems doubtful that I’ll have the chance.

part three

chapter twenty-four

Everything outside this limo is familiar to me: the run-down apartment buildings, the little grocers, the scattered homeless, the dealers, the neighbors who despite their struggles always manage to maintain a sense of community that is completely foreign to the truly wealthy. This is a world that I can easily manipulate and survive in. It’s an oddly comforting place. It’s my home. Harlem.

If I could just open the door to this limo I would be home.

But no one is going to let me do that. Not Micah, who is on my right, flipping through my phone and looking at my texts and call records. Not Javier, on my left, scratching at his stubble while his free hand casually rests on the butt of his gun.