When my father first told Charlie about his cancer, she said she didn’t believe him. She accused him of trying to get out of paying her beauty school tuition. She said he was making it up because he didn’t want her to be happy. Daddy broke down in tears and fell to the floor right in front of us, swearing to God all he ever wanted was for his girls to be happy. For Charlie to be happy. It was the second time I’d ever seen him cry. The first was on his fortieth birthday, when I gave him the refurbished wedding ring I just pawned for Charlie. The third was on the day he died.

As my daddy wept at our feet, my sister stood there, staring at me in disbelief. When I nodded at her to let her know he wasn’t making the cancer up, her eyes fluttered closed and she knelt on the floor next to him, wrapping her arms around him and telling him again and again how sorry she was for being so selfish.

Right before I moved to Philadelphia, Charlie told me she’d never forgive herself for that moment. She said his death would be her motivation to make something of herself. She said she wouldn’t let him down. I suppose that’s why I keep giving her so many second chances. Because I want to believe she’s still capable of making him proud.

Truth be told, I feel a little like Charlie right now, having just done something so opposite of everything my father ever taught us about living an honest life. I’ve essentially brokered a deal with the devil; it’s one that, if I’m right, won’t come to full fruition, but it’s still one worth being ashamed of. If my father was alive, and he found out about my agreement with Winston Sinclair, he’d probably knock me over the head with a sack of crawdads until I came to my senses. I always thought that’s what he should’ve done with Charlie, but now I realize he always knew better. He knew Charlie was, and is, too fragile to handle those kinds of hits.

But then again, maybe he wouldn’t sack me. Maybe my father would be proud of me for taking Winston Sinclair to the table on this one. Maybe he’d say good for you when I said I wanted the twenty thousand dollars. Maybe he’d tell me I should’ve asked for fifty.

Regardless, I’m sure he’d have plenty to say about what I’m going to do with the money.

As I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about my father, I hear Adam making coffee in my pint-sized kitchen. A cabinet door clunks closed as he searches for the filters. A few minutes later, when the smell of freshly brewed coffee finally wafts under the bedroom door, I drag myself out of bed and pull on my clothes. The alarm clock tells me it’s 10:15 already. My work suspension is a nightmare, but sleeping in certainly is not. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late, even on a day off.

I walk out into the kitchen, where I’m greeted by a freshly showered Adam and a full pot of coffee. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but I can smell the soapiness of his skin. His wet hair is combed to perfect, bed-headed attention. Adam hugs me, and I hug him back, sinking my face into his chest and inhaling his fresh, clean scent. He pours us both a cup of coffee, and as we’re making plans for him to pick me up for an early dinner after he visits with his grandmother, my phone rings.

It’s Susan Campbell. But this time she’s not the bearer of bad news, and she doesn’t feel the need to apologize. Instead, she tells me the complaint was withdrawn. She doesn’t tell me the name of the person who filed the complaint of course, but she does say that “he” informed her via telephone first thing this morning that the whole thing was a big misunderstanding. At her request, he’s heading in to Pine Manor as we speak to fill out the appropriate paperwork. Susan says management needs a few days to clear things up on their end, but it looks like I’ll be back to work by the end of the week.

As Adam listens to my half of the conversation, his face grows lighter and lighter. It’s as if I’m watching a gigantic burden being slowly lifted from his shoulders with every word I say. I’m guessing that, until this very moment, he doubted his father would actually do what he said he would. By the time I hang up, he’s wearing an enthusiastic grin and beaming with pride.

I fill Adam in on all the details of the conversation, and soon after, I manage to convince him to stick around and hang out with me a little longer. I remind him rushing off to Pine Manor right now means a definite run-in with his father, but if he waits here for a bit, their paths are less likely to cross. He doesn’t like to leave his father alone with Ms. Sinclair, so I know he considers staying here with me to be a substantial gamble, but his newfound confidence kicks in and he agrees to stay for a little while longer.

I’m keenly aware that I’m walking a fine line, wanting them to avoid each other, but needing Adam to be gone by the time Mr. Sinclair’s driver comes at noon. I offer to make us omelets. It seems to do the trick.

Soon after the breakfast dishes are washed, Adam’s out the door, planting another not-such-a-nice-boy kiss on my mouth just before he goes. It makes my blood—now infused with a fevered rush of notes—pound through my ears. I ask him to give my best to his grandmother and tell her I’ll be seeing her in a few days. I don’t know if she’ll understand or not, or even if she’s noticed I’m gone, but it somehow makes me feel better.

So does the knowledge that after all of this is over, after everything is over, there will only be us. Me and Adam. And there will be love and compassion and music filling us both, holding us up and keeping us connected.

* * *

My doorbell rings at precisely 12:00. When I open it, I find a huge, smartly dressed black man standing in the hallway. He introduces himself as Perry Devine, Mr. Sinclair’s driver, and asks if he can come in. He’s holding a thick envelope in his right hand and in his left earlobe is one of the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen. Under any other circumstances, I’d give him a big, fat no for an answer, but our transaction is one I’d rather keep private. The neighbors already consider my bass practicing annoying; I can only imagine what they’d think if they overheard the conversation I’m about to have with this massive man in a suit and aviator sunglasses. I open the door and step aside.

Perry Devine walks into my apartment and turns to face me as I close the door. I have a sharp and sudden memory of Winston Sinclair standing in the exact same place just yesterday. This guy, though…this guy is different. He’s more physically intimidating than Mr. Sinclair, but there’s something softer about him. He takes off his aviators with his free hand and tosses the envelope onto the coffee table behind him, watching it fall onto the wooden surface. When he faces me again, I see a pair of deep brown eyes, long-lashed and fierce, yet full of something warm and familiar. There’s no longer a lens of shaded glass between his eyes and mine, but I don’t see his death. I don’t see anything.

Perry Devine will not be there when it happens.

“If I might be so bold, I’d like to give you some advice, Miss McGee.” He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side. Just by a hair.

“Please do.”

“I’ve been Mr. Sinclair’s driver for seventeen years. I’ve driven him to the State Legislature Building and the senate offices more times than I can count. I’ve taken his wife to tea at the Governor’s Mansion the first Tuesday of every month for the past ten years. I’ve watched his son stumble through puberty—hell, I drove the boy to the prom for God’s sake—and I shook his hand after every graduation, from grade school to grad school.” He stops talking for a second, as if to let his words sink in. I keep quiet but don’t take my eyes off of his. “This family is my business, Miss McGee, and I take serving them very seriously. Loyalty is not something I take lightly, so I suggest you take that ten grand and sever yourself from the Sinclairs immediately. You wait too long, and it’ll be too late. Mr. Sinclair is a man of his word. Has been since my first day on the job.”

“He gave me until the end of the week.”

Perry Devine’s eyebrows rise, as if he can’t believe I’ve said something other than Yes, sir. Right away, sir.

“I’m aware of that. But, I’m trying to be nice. I’m telling you, the sooner, the better. For everyone. Just make my job easier, Miss McGee. Following people like you around is not what I was hired for.”

And there you have it. Confirmation that my Latham Street visits had nothing to do with the black car. I’m both relieved and mortified by the knowledge that this is who’s been watching me so closely.

He uncrosses his arms and points to the envelope on the table. “Be smart. Take that money and go back to Louisiana. Or wherever. Leave Adam alone. I’ll see that you get the rest of your money. Like I said, Mr. Sinclair is a man of his word.”

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Devine?”

His eyes narrow as his hands clasp just in front of the lowest button of his suit jacket. I’d bet the ten grand sitting on my coffee table he’s former military.

He doesn’t answer, but I ask my question anyway. “Have you seen anything that would lead you to believe I don’t love Adam?”

There’s not a single breath of time between my question and his answer. “Love has nothing to do with this. But that ten grand over there sure has a lot to say about it.”

“Mr. Sinclair didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“He’s like that sometimes.” He shrugs his shoulders coyly.

We stand in my living room for a few silent moments, neither of us moving or opening our mouths. Thoughts of Adam’s light skin against my dark sneak into my thoughts, introducing both a sharp blast of love and a slip of fear.

I’m suddenly second-guessing the risk I’ve taken, regretting nothing and everything all at the same time.

But, it’s true…I don’t have a choice. I have to follow through and hope Mr. Sinclair’s eyes held the truth.

And I have to pray to Louise McGee’s god that Adam doesn’t find out about it.

Perry Devine takes a deep breath before unclasping his hands and walking over to me. He stops in front of me, my forehead level with his chest. Looking down, he says, “Find yourself someone else to love.” He walks around me and opens the door, a trail of expensive cologne following his footsteps. Just as he steps out into the hallway he adds, “You’ll be better off. Trust me.”

A hundred questions slam into me with the click of the knob, every one of them casting a shadow. Every one of them generating a dozen more.

Wednesday cannot come fast enough.

* * *

At dinner, Adam tells me Gram had a pretty bad day. She fell again this afternoon, in the bathroom, but he caught her just before she hit the floor. After he helped Ms. Sinclair back onto her feet, she told him she’d have to report him to Principal Sykes for his unacceptable behavior. She scolded him for touching her in an inappropriate manner. He said he apologized profusely, and by the time she finished using the bathroom, she’d already forgotten the whole thing and was talking about the lack of chalk for the school chalkboards.

We talk a little more about his grandmother and about the conversation he had with Dr. Kopsey concerning her upcoming dental appointment. But, what Adam doesn’t mention is his father. From the sound of it, this morning’s omelet tactic worked.

* * *

I take a gamble and make a phone call Tuesday morning, just after Adam leaves to visit his gram. Since I no longer need to be up and out the door by 7:30, we spent last night at his place. We watched a movie on his cushy couch, had sex in his big bed, and ate breakfast at his granite countertop—each moment perfect and amazing. And probably under the watchful eye of Perry Devine.

I’m not sure if it’s the right number, but I dial it anyway, hoping for the best. A man answers after four rings. I’ve obviously woken him. It’s 10:30 here; 9:30 Louisiana time. I don’t feel bad for waking the what’s-his-face. His lazy ass should be working anyway.

“What’d you want?”

I steady my voice to steady my nerves. “May I please speak to Charlie?”

“Who is this?”

“Her sister. Is she there?”

“Hell no. Is that why you woke me up? Jesus. I haven’t seen that bitch in a week. I’m done with her ass. Ain’t got no use for her no more. She prolly livin’ over at Tasha’s place.” Good. “Don’t call me again, you hear?”

“I hear.” I turn on the syrupy sweetness. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help. Enjoy your day.”

“Fuck you.” Click.

Tasha Pearson was my sister’s roommate before my father got sick. They lived with another girl in a flat in a high rise on Gravelston Street. It wasn’t a big place, but it was theirs. I used to love going over there when I was a junior in high school; they’d give me cigarettes and let me watch The Vampire Diaries with them every Thursday night. Tasha and Charlie were supposed to go to Blue Cliff cosmetology school together, but just before my father died, Charlie withdrew her application. Tasha went without her.

I use my iPhone to Google Tasha’s number. It rings twice before a woman answers. I can hear a baby babbling in the background.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Is this Tasha?”

“No. She’s at work right now. Can I take a message?” It’s Charlie. I recognize her voice immediately. This time, though, it doesn’t sound panicked. It sounds like Charlie. Maybe my eight hundred dollars actually meant something.

“Hey. It’s me.”

“K’acy?”

“Yep.”

“I was gonna call you tomorrow, I swear.”

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re all right. The what’s-his-face told me you’re living with Tasha now. So, it’s true?” Inside, I’m bursting with hope. Hope that she’s finally found her way. Hope that my daddy and I have a reason to be proud.

“Yeah. It’s just temporary. I’m watching her kid in exchange for a place to stay so she can save a little on daycare. You won’t believe it, but she still lives in the place on Gravelston. Looks the same. Only now she’s got a little kid. A baby named Elijah. She still works at the salon, too.”

“That’s great, Charlie. I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m looking for a real job. So I can pay you back. For real this time. I swear.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. In fact, I have something else I’d like to send you—no strings attached. I didn’t know your address, but now I do.”

“You don’t have to send me anything.”

“I know I don’t have to. But I want to. I just…I picked up some extra work.”

A small sniffle eventually breaks the long silence on the other end of the line. “I won’t waste it,” she says.

My heart swells with the knowledge that she’s telling me the truth again. I can feel it. “I know.”

Soon after we hang up, I call a taxi. First, it takes me to my place. Then, it takes me to the bank. I get a cashier’s check for $9,500 made out to Charlie McGee. The taxi driver’s last stop is the post office. As I slide the envelope into the slot, I think about what it’s going to mean to Charlie, and how she’s going to feel when she tears the envelope open and sees what’s inside.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi driver pulls up to the curb in front of my apartment. I pay the driver with some of the remaining Sinclair cash and wave to the dark sedan now parked across the street. I can’t see him through the shaded windows, but I’m pretty sure Perry Devine does not wave back.

* * *

I wait for sleep to arrive on Tuesday night with Adam wrapped around me, his warm body holding me snug. Trepidation over the day to come has burned a small, smoldering hole in my heart, sending a flutter of notes—atonal and harsh—out into my bloodstream. They settle against my nerves and cause nausea to simmer in my stomach. I want to warn him about tomorrow. I want to tell him what’s to come. But I can’t, because he’ll feel the same fear and horror my father felt when he looked at me after Ronald Chapman’s daughter died. When he realized what I said had come true.

I never want someone to look at me like that again.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but a small part of me actually hopes I’m wrong. Maybe tomorrow will not be the night. Maybe the date on the bank sign wasn’t right. Maybe Winston Sinclair is an anomaly in my fate, and for the first time ever, I’ll be wrong. I think this not because I care about what happens to Winston Sinclair, but because of his son. The possibility of Adam somehow suffering is what’s ignited the smoldering hole in my heart because I can’t see what he will feel. I can only see the torturous end of his father’s life.

My eyes do not close for a long time, even as Adam’s breath falls into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep. As I stare at my hand resting on his chest, tracing the perfect alternating Vs of light and dark with my stare, I think about the gift I’ve been given. About what I can see and do. And, even in moments like this, moments where some might consider it a curse, I know what a miracle it is. I know how lucky I am.

Still…not for the first time, I wish I couldn’t see death. I wish I couldn’t see human loss, right down to the very last detail, if I care to look hard enough. It only happens when their time is close. A few months at most.

But, right now…I wish it didn’t happen at all.