The first time I pulled Sam away from this type of den was a few years ago, the night Martha died. Vera had called to tell me we needed to come back to Chillicothe right away because Martha had died in a fire. The authorities believed she fell asleep on the sofa while smoking. We drove out to Chillicothe that night, both of us crying the entire drive—Sam crying for Martha, and me crying for Sam because he had lost someone he loved.
I walked through the room twice, but Sam wasn’t there. I paced back to the front of the store.
“Find what you were looking for?” Rolly asked with a snarky grin.
I ignored him.
Outside, thankfully, the two men were gone and my car was intact. I opened the car door and heard my name.
“Ellice!”
I spun around. Sam’s friend “Juice,” as he was known around the neighborhood, trotted up to me. Juice was the only friend of Sam’s I knew. He was tall, the color of mahogany wood, and handsome to boot. His short locs framed his face like dancing little wands of soft brown hair. If he had a real job and less baggage, he might make some woman happy.
“Hey, beautiful. What are you doing over here?” His voice had a deep sultry quality, and I got irritated at myself for the butterflies that floated in my stomach whenever I saw him.
“Juice, I’m looking for Sam. Have you seen him? I need to find him. It’s urgent.”
“Is everything okay?”
He didn’t need details. “He hasn’t answered my calls in a few days.”
“You know Sam. He’s probably met some pretty little thing and he doesn’t want to be interrupted with his sister nagging him about whether he ate lunch.” Juice laughed at his joke, but I wasn’t amused. “Hang on,” he said.
Juice pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and dialed. He leaned against my car, holding the phone and gazing at me. “Woman, when are you gonna stop breaking my heart and marry me?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t date my little brother’s friends.”
“Ouch! You know, age ain’t nothing but a number,” he said with a wide grin. “Hmph.” He looked down at his phone. “No answer. Just rings over to voice mail.”
“Yeah, that’s the same thing I got.”
“For what it’s worth, Sam don’t hang around here no more. My boy is on the come up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him a couple days ago. He said he’s done with these side hustles and places like Geno’s. He’s going legit.”
“He told me you had a buddy who was going to give him a job. Where is he working?”
“Not sure. I referred him to a friend of a friend. But it’s all legit. I’m not trying to send my brothers back in the joint. That’s not what I do.”
“Look, if you see him, tell him to call me. It’s really important.”
“I will.” Juice grinned at me again. “Hey, give me your number just in case . . . you know, if I see him.”
“Nice try. Give me yours instead.” Juice laughed and called out his number as I tapped it into my phone. I climbed inside my car and started the engine.
“On the serious tip, if you don’t find Sam, let me know. He’s like a brother to me.”
“Thanks.”
I pulled out of the parking lot. Sam’s face flashed through my mind. The security footage of him strolling through Houghton’s lobby before Michael was murdered, his burglary experience, and Anna’s disabled home security system. I tried Sam’s number again, but no answer. A nauseating wave of panic washed over me.
I made a U-turn and sped toward his house.
Chapter 16
Sam wasn’t answering my calls, but he’d have a hard time running from me if I showed up on his front porch. I turned onto his street, located in a “transitional” East Atlanta neighborhood. Elderly Black people had once owned these small brick bungalows, had sat on the front porches and tended the small lawns in front of them. Now those owners were either dying off or selling out. Young white couples were moving in by the droves and spending their six-figure incomes and trust funds to renovate the small dwellings into a gentrified and much-sought-after neighborhood of thirty-five-hundred-square-foot Craftsman-style homes. And perched among the stunning refurbishments was Sam’s little slice of the “American dream,” a small redbrick bungalow. The house was neat and pleasant but lacked any personality. No flowers or planters. Blinds drawn.
The first thing I noticed as I pulled into Sam’s driveway was the FOR SALE BY OWNER sign planted in the center of the neatly trimmed lawn, Sam’s phone number scrawled in black marker. He hadn’t mentioned he was selling the house. If he was serious about selling it, he could make triple the money he paid for it. Or I should say, the money I paid for it.