Imani remembered asking something similar at Ava’s age. When Imani was in high school, her mom had been diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer. Unfortunately, both her parents had kept that news from her until nearly the end, each blaming any bouts of weakness on sleeping difficulties. The misguided effort to preserve her childhood had unintentionally eradicated most of the joy from her teenage memories. Imani couldn’t think back on some high school party where she’d kissed a crush or a sleepover with her best friends without viewing it as time squandered on people who would never matter as much as her dying mom. Lies, even well-meaning ones, were so rarely a kindness.

“Sweetheart.” She grasped Ava’s hands, holding them between both of her own. The girl reacted to the touch as if it alone had announced the seriousness of the situation. Veins throbbed in her neck. Her eyes watered.

“Your father was shot,” Imani said. “He died. I’m so sorry.”

Ava made a sound like a tire screeching to a halt. Her thin mask invaded her mouth, stretching over the opening like shrink wrap. Imani brushed the girl’s blond hair away from her tears, unlooping the PPE from her ears in the process. School policy be damned. The child needed to breathe.

“And Mom?” The question gurgled from Ava’s throat.

“Everyone is looking for her.”

Imani guided Ava’s head to her chest and belted her arms around her shoulders. She held on as sobs jolted the teen’s body, trying her best to absorb the shock. For several minutes, they stood that way, Ava’s muscles spasming as she struggled for air.

When Ava finally caught her breath, she spent it with a stream of questions. Who had killed her dad? Why had they done it? Did her mom know what had happened? Where would her mother be? Did they have her?

Imani rhythmically patted Ava’s back in response, whispering the only answer she could give. “I don’t know, honey. But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to find out.”

CHAPTER SIX

TONYA

Philip didn’t fire her. As Tonya stood outside Banque Gauche’s front door, scanning for the packs of hungry patrons who’d once put food on her table, Tonya wondered whether the chef’s restraint was truly a kindness. At the height of the restaurant’s fame, she’d earned $80,000 in a single year thanks to the standard gratuity on hundred-plus-per-person checks, sweetened with extras thrown in by half-drunk executives flaunting their generosity to an affable, attractive twenty-something. But those days were long gone. If Tonya was being honest with herself, they’d faded years before the pandemic.