The morning light caught the chrome and polish of the vehicles, making them gleam like an invasion of black beetles. A crowd gathered near Elias’s house. Relle watched, her throat tight as the door opened. The man who stepped out wasn’t the quiet, shabby figure they knew. Elias Witmore stood tall in a perfectly tailored charcoal coat, his silver hair neatly combed, his bearing commanding.
He moved with purpose, flanked by men in suits who cleared a path through the growing crowd. “That can’t be Mr. for Witmore,” Nia whispered, pressing her face against the window despite her mother’s warning. “He looks so different,” Rashelle’s head throbbed. Something about his stance, the way he held his shoulders.
It tugged at memories she’d buried long ago. The pressure in her chest returned, stronger than before. A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. “M Brooks,” a professional voice called. “Mr. Mr. Whitmore requests your presence outside. Mama. Nia’s eyes were wide with worry. Rochelle squared her shoulders, trying to project a calm she didn’t feel. Get dressed, baby.
