I’ve been getting condolence calls and texts all week from everyone I know. Even Burton Pearce expressed his sympathies. I was touched by the outpouring of messages. This one pisses me off. I sit down on my bed and text back:

Who is this, you son of a bitch?

So far, this has been a one-way communication. I’ve never responded until now. I don’t know what to expect.

Within seconds, there’s a reply.

You’re still in danger. Suzanne. Amber. Garrett. You could be next.

A warning or a threat? Either way, I’m over it.

No more texting. Meet me in person.

I send it and wait. My head is throbbing, and my heart is pounding. This better be good.

It is.

Grand Central. Today, 3 p.m., the information booth clock. Alone.

I throw open my bedroom door and stomp into the kitchen. “Mama, I changed my mind.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going back to work.”

“You mean teaching?”

“No. I mean the book. I’m going to finish it myself.”

CHAPTER
72

Grand Central Terminal, Manhattan

When I was little, train rides put me to sleep.

Today, I’m wide awake.

Pops used to take me on train rides all the time, all over New York City and up and down the Hudson River. He was proud of being part of a system that moved millions of people every day. He told me to always be polite to the engineer and the conductor. They usually gave us a special nod when he flashed his MTA ID.

My train pulls into Grand Central and I follow the crowd to the main floor with its shiny gold clock and 125-foot-high ceiling mural illustrating the constellations of the zodiac.

I stop at the edge of the concourse and scan the people walking by. I see cops patrolling. I assume I’m watching for a Black man, since the texts came from “A Brother.” That’s all I know.

A young woman with locs falling over her shoulders stops in front of me like she’s about to ask for directions. She’s skinny and tall and can’t be more than nineteen or twenty.

“Looking for Brother?” she asks.

The expression on my face is all the confirmation she needs.

“Let’s go,” she says. With a strong stride, she crosses the terminal, turning back to make sure I’m behind her as she climbs the marble staircase on the west side of the concourse.

I hustle to keep up.

At the Vanderbilt entrance, a battered Hyundai is parked illegally, hazard lights flashing. Standing on the far side of the car is a Black man wearing a long tan coat, frayed at the collar. His eyes are darting left and right.

Is this the man behind the ominous texts? Is this Brother?