Chapter 2 - The House in Mesquite
The black Suburban pulled up to the curb outside my apartment complex in Mesquite at 3:15 p.m.
The neighborhood was a collection of faded two-story brick buildings with sagging balconies, overgrown grass, and cars parked on cement blocks. It was miles away from the manicured lawns, tall iron gates, and security cameras of Highland Park.
"I’ll carry those up for you, Miss Maya," Marcus said, shifting the heavy gear shift into park and opening his door.
"Oh, no, Marcus, please, you don't have to," I begged, feeling a deep wave of embarrassment.
"Mr. Parker’s orders," Marcus said with a small, respectful smile as he pulled the heavy cardboard box containing the six cans of formula out of the trunk. "Besides, these things are heavy."
We walked up the concrete stairs to the second floor. Apartment 204.
When I unlocked the door, the familiar scent of lavender baby soap and warm tortillas filled the air. My babysitter, Mrs. Gomez—an elderly woman from down the hall who watched Santi for fifty dollars a week—was sitting on the hand-me-down sofa, bouncing my son on her knee.
Santi’s face lit up the moment he saw me. "Ma-ma!" he babbled, stretching his chubby, five-pound arms toward me, his two bottom teeth showing in a wide, drooly smile.
"Hi, my sweet boy," I whispered, rushing over to take him into my arms. I buried my face in his soft neck, inhaling his scent, feeling his tiny heart beating against mine. Everything I suffered, every humiliating look from people like Regina Hale, was worth it the second I held him.
Marcus set the box down on the small laminate kitchen table. "Everything alright here, ma'am?"
"Yes, thank you, Marcus," I said gratefully.
As Marcus walked back out to the landing, he suddenly stopped. His eyes locked onto a shadow standing near the bottom of the stairwell.
It was Beto.
My brother stepped out into the light, his Cowboys hoodie pulled up over his head, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face flushed with anger.
"Look at you," Beto sneered, looking at Marcus and then at the black SUV parked at the curb. "Getting dropped off in a hundred-thousand-dollar car. You think you’re high class now, Maya? You forget where you come from?"
"Beto, go home," I said, stepping onto the balcony, keeping Santi behind my back. "You went to my boss’s house today. You embarrassed me. You almost got me fired!"
"Fired?" Beto laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "That rich bastard has billions, Maya! Billions! And he gives you six cans of milk and you act like he’s Jesus Christ? He owes us! People like him steal from people like us every day!"
"He doesn't owe us anything!" I yelled, my voice shaking. "He paid for Santi’s food out of his own pocket! Leave me alone, Beto! If you come near my job again, I’ll call the police myself!"
Beto’s face darkened. He pointed a dirty finger at me. "You listen to me, lil sister. Some people came looking for money today. Old debts from the neighborhood. I told 'em my sister works for a billionaire in Highland Park. If you don't help me pay 'em off, they ain't coming for me—they’re coming here."
My blood ran cold.
"What did you do?" I whispered.
Before Beto could answer, Marcus stepped down two stairs, his massive shadow falling over my brother.
"You have five seconds to clear this stairwell," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a military command tone. "Or I drag you down it myself."
May you like
Beto glared at Marcus, spat on the pavement, and stumbled off toward the street, muttering curses under his breath.
I stood on the balcony, clutching Santi to my chest, my mind spinning into pure terror. Beto hadn't just embarrassed me at Ethan’s gate. He had put a target on my back—and on my son’s back.
