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10:35 A.M.
New York, NY—Columbia University
Columbia University had been, Marco knew, the crème de la crème. He adored the old buildings, welcomed the pricey tuition, and understood the huge number of campus police and cameras.
For some odd reason, to him anyways, students tried hard to mix with Morningside Heights—typical rich Upper West Side neighborhood—residents. He was there for an Ivy League education and any community efforts would be made in black and brown communities that truly needed his skill set. All grown up, he thought, walking pass a bronzed statue of a naked gentleman just sitting there apparently thinking. He was in the school’s main plaza and copped a squat in front of Low Memorial Library to pass the time away before his first class: Academic Writing & Critical Reading. Just a young man thinking about a bright future. A future with a resume that listed his undergrad studies at the university attended by the first black President of the United States. Not bad, he thought, considering I’ve only known my dad nine months and turned out quite well. Although his mother had lied to him about who his father was, she was partly responsible for his academic adeptness. The other part was inherited from Naim Butler. Since his move from North Carolina, back in January, he’d fully embraced the New York City culture, and the father he loved like he had known him his entire life. “So blessed,” he said aloud, but quietly. He faded into a daydream but was roused to reality by the soft touch of Amber’s hand to his sweaty neck. He lightly jerked causing her to smile.
“You were really off in space,” she said, staring at him. “You didn’t even see me approaching.” Her romantic, tawny eyes flirted with him.
He stood, hugged her and said, “Your eyes become more brownish with the sun shining on them.” His NBA forward-esque physique swallowed her svelte, ballerina frame. “I was just thinking about how far I’ve come as a New Yorker.” Pulling her closer, he said, “And how devoted I’ve been to making you the happiest woman alive.”
“Look at you. All charm this morning,” she said, smiling.
“Every morning.” He raised a bushy eyebrow mirroring his father’s, causing her to burst into laughter. Marco’s demeanor demonstrated an absurd level of confidence. And he was thankful for his superior qualities.
He was equally thankful for the things shaping his future: his major (political science); his job (sales associate at 59th & Lexington Bloomingdale’s); her major (English); and her job (sales associate at the Fifth Avenue Apple Store). They had been building a committed relationship for eight months, after meeting at their prestigious Manhattan prep school, Clive Davis Hall.
“Yes, every morning, big head,” she said, grabbing his hand. “We better get to class.”
Nineteen-year-old, Amber King, was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey currently resided Alpine, New Jersey—once deemed America’s richest zip code and home to dozens of celebrities—with her father (an obstetrician) and mother (a Wall Street broker). Today her luxuriant hair rested on her shoulders, framing an oval-shaped face, housing dark-brown eyes, slim nose, and voluptuous lips. She was enveloped in a creamy almond-complexion, tall and strutted down the streets gracefully like a catwalk destroyer.
The campus had a Monday-morning feel to it. Most of the students were bustling about getting the semester underway. In that light, Marco had a feeling of optimism that he desired to savor, and he was unapologetically grateful.
Taking her laptop bag in his hand, he began to escort her to the only class that they scheduled to take together.
“Have you talked to your dad about his class, yet?” she asked genuinely. She had a high level of respect for Naim—he future father-in-law.
“No, but I did text him. I had two dozen roses and a card sent to him, also.”
Then a boom sound pierced the air in the distance.
“You hear that?”
A loud, rapid cracking followed a gunshot report; sound traveling quicker than the spray of bullets. The speed said the shots were nearby, seemingly from somewhere right inside of the school’s quad.
“Shooter,” said Marco, squeezing Amber’s hand tighter and pulling her, quickly but not panicked, towards the Thinking Man statue. Gunshots on a college campus meant crazed lunatic. Or terrorist. There had been a lot of homegrown insanity in the United States over the past few years. Violent mass murderers. He feared he was in the crosshairs of an attack, rushing to take cover.
Two of the bullets hit the statue, spraying marble, but a third one hit Marco Butler squarely in the right shoulder. It made him spin, leaving behind a twirl of blood. The bullet penetrated and exited cleanly, ripping flesh and muscle but missed the heart and the lungs.
Not too much blood, no bones fragments.