The sound of glass shattering overpowered her last word. Layla’s head turned toward the source of the sound, giving Tonya a preview of what was happening from her expression. The wall of a man had picked up one of the framed art pieces and smashed it on the pavement. He held another in his hand.

“Stop!” Layla shouted.

“You gonna leave my ma alone,” the man roared, “or do I have to make sure there’s nothing to move back in?”

“You can’t—”

Before Tonya could finish, another picture hit the pavement.

“Stop!” Layla screamed. “Stop it!”

Another crash.

“Stop!”

The man picked up the broken frame with his glove-protected hands and pulled out the art inside. It was Layla’s watercolor. “You gonna go?” He started to tear the paper.

“Why are you doing this?” Layla screamed.

The man ripped the painting in two and grabbed for another of the artworks. Layla turned into Tonya’s chest, her tears adding a slick to the waterproof coating of Tonya’s coat. The phone was in her hand, Tonya thought—91 was on the screen. One more digit and she’d be on with the police. The cops would arrive within five minutes, maybe less. Maybe she could give them a fake name to explain the child support payments?

The younger man appeared. He stood by the coffee table, his foot near one of the four legs. He wore workman’s boots, Tonya noticed, the industrial kind with reinforced heels and toes.

The police would stop them, she assured herself. But by the time they did, what would she and Layla have left to save?

Glass shattered. The young man’s foot recoiled.

“Okay,” Tonya shouted, directing every ounce of energy into her voice. “Okay. We’ll go.”

She raised her phone like a weapon. “I’ll call a moving truck.”

Behind her, Ms. Bosco cleared her throat. “Call one with a storage company. It’s cheaper.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IMANI

A supermarket tabloid that Imani often flipped through had a feature called “Stars—Just Like Us.” It showed various celebrities engaged in the mundane necessities of modern life: paying parking meters, hailing cabs, picking up takeout, or pushing a grocery cart. The point of the feature was to convince readers that folks who earned millions of dollars for three-month shoots still donned their pants one leg at a time like the rest of the hoi polloi, that these folks were relatable, despite the very fact that they’d been photographed doing regular old activities and then had those pictures mailed out by a publicist or sold to a magazine.