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Marcus’s voice changes, becomes hard as steel. “Don’t move anything. Don’t delete any messages or throw away any receipts. Don’t argue with them, don’t threaten them, don’t warn them that you’re taking action. Just act like nothing has changed. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good. I’m going to build a case. We’re going to document everything. And Loretta—I’m going to make this right. You saved my life once. Now it’s my turn.”
When I hang up, I stare at the phone for a long moment, my heart pounding. Then I make the second call.
Rhonda Washington answers on the first ring, her voice bright and familiar even after years of minimal contact. “Loretta Denison? Oh my God, I was just thinking about you last week.”
Rhonda grew up two doors down from me in a rough Columbus neighborhood where opportunities were scarce and escape seemed impossible. Her mother got sick with cancer when Rhonda was in college, and I stepped in without being asked. I fed her mother, bathed her, sat with her through the terrible nights when the pain was worst and the fear was overwhelming, read to her from the romance novels she loved. I did this so Rhonda could finish her degree, could chase her dream of journalism, could build the life her mother wanted for her.
