The murder was so fresh that the press had yet to get creative with headlines. Nate Walker, Acclaimed Director, Dead from Gunshot, was the lead story on the Times’s website. The Post had allowed itself more alliteration and assumption: Nate Walker, Moviemaker, Maybe Murdered in Mansion. But none of the news outlets or blogs were playing with puns involving Nate’s many films, some of which had been crime thrillers.
As Imani stormed down the sidewalk, she scanned articles on her cell for any mention of Melissa’s last known whereabouts, trusting her fellow New Yorkers to dive out of her distracted way. As far as she could tell, the papers didn’t have any info. The articles only said that police were “actively looking” for Mrs. Walker. No one in law enforcement had been quoted expressing concern for Melissa’s safety.
Imani considered the implications of that as she crossed the street to St. Catherine’s gleaming limestone facade. Everyone in the area knew the beaux arts building. The school was something of a beacon for bourgeoisie Brooklynites seeking a straight path for their kids from nursery school to America’s top universities. She’d lobbied hard for Vivienne’s and Jay’s acceptance, pledging to volunteer for committees in lieu of providing donations that she couldn’t afford.
Imani jogged up the steps to the iron double doors, hit the buzzer, and then faced the screen above it, identifying herself. A sharp click announced that she’d been recognized. As she entered the lobby, an unseen conversation, punctuated with laughter, bounced off the ionic columns and double-height ceilings. Its youthful pitch raised the baby hairs on Imani’s neck. Children’s voices didn’t seem to belong in St. Catherine’s operatic vestibule. Of course, that had likely been the reason for the school designing such an entrance. St. Catherine’s wanted its students to grow accustomed to adult spaces so that they’d be able to hold court in them later.
The main office sprawled behind glass walls. Ava was visible through them. She sat in front of a long mahogany desk, facing someone out of view. Seeing her was to look at a youth-filtered version of her mother. The teen possessed the same wide-set eyes and, above her mask, the beginnings of the same snub nose. Her blunt-cut bob had been styled by her mom’s hairdresser. Ava’s age softened the photogenic angles so prominent on Melissa’s face, but it would only be a matter of years before the girl’s full cheeks and round chin pinched to her mother’s heart shape.
Imani’s vision blurred. She loved Ava as she did her own nieces and nephews, which was to say that she wanted the girl’s life brimming with joy and success. But that love—real as it may be—did not make Imani family. Some messages should only be delivered by blood.
Melissa had chosen her in the event of an emergency, however. Imani took pride in that, the same way she’d always felt a kind of puffed-up satisfaction in her status as Melissa Walker’s closest confidant. That pride, perhaps more than her love, enabled her to pull back the door, despite the stabbing pain in her chest. It propelled her across the room, prepared for whatever fight would be required to protect Melissa’s daughter.
Imani’s presence wrested Ava’s attention from the adults beside her. One was a woman of fifty or so with dark hair pulled into a severe bun and a string of pearls topping a black turtleneck leading up to a thick black mask. The ensemble seemed a costume to Imani. Ruth Bader Ginsburg feminist assassin, or something. The older man beside Ava with a Spread Kindness mask over his mouth was Headmaster Steve Goodman.
“Is my dad okay?”
The squeaky hope in Ava’s question nearly made Imani lose it. Tears bubbled behind Imani’s eyes, hot bile threatening to spew forth. She forced them back, imagining a cement dam dug deep into the ground, its foundation bolted to New York City’s bedrock. Ava would eventually want loved ones who could share in her grief. Right now, she needed adults to assure her of safety.
“As we explained to Ava, we haven’t been able to contact her mother.” Ninja Ginsburg leaned forward over her thighs, changing Imani’s assessment. The body language screamed school therapist. “Not since Mr. Walker suffered his serious accident.”
The last few words answered Imani’s earlier questions. The school had clearly been informed but had chosen to keep the news secret from Ava. Telling her would be Imani’s job.
“We’ve told Ava that we’re here and available in any way to help her,” Goodman said, rubbing his right thumb over his left. Imani had never observed the nervous tic in him before. As headmaster, Goodman was both educator and marketer, a telegenic evangelist for the school’s project-heavy curriculum. Imani was accustomed to him standing behind a podium, delivering chummy speeches to auditoriums packed with the city’s rich and powerful. It was disconcerting to see him hunched over, looking up from beneath thick gray brows, worrying his knuckles.
“And that she shouldn’t be concerned about missing any classes,” the woman added. “The most important thing is her wellness.”
The last word solidified Imani’s assessment of the stranger. She was definitely the school counselor.
“They took my cell.” Ava stood as she spoke. Both her reedy voice and slight teenage body trembled. “I can’t look up what happened. I don’t understand why my mom isn’t here. Is she with my dad in the hospital? Is she home?”
Ava gestured to the school therapist. “She keeps saying that she doesn’t know anything. But there must be something online or else they’d let me have my phone back. Just tell me. Why won’t anyone tell me anything?”
Imani remembered asking something similar at Ava’s age. When Imani was in high school, her mom had been diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer. Unfortunately, both her parents had kept that news from her until nearly the end, each blaming any bouts of weakness on sleeping difficulties. The misguided effort to preserve her childhood had unintentionally eradicated most of the joy from her teenage memories. Imani couldn’t think back on some high school party where she’d kissed a crush or a sleepover with her best friends without viewing it as time squandered on people who would never matter as much as her dying mom. Lies, even well-meaning ones, were so rarely a kindness.
“Sweetheart.” She grasped Ava’s hands, holding them between both of her own. The girl reacted to the touch as if it alone had announced the seriousness of the situation. Veins throbbed in her neck. Her eyes watered.
“Your father was shot,” Imani said. “He died. I’m so sorry.”
Ava made a sound like a tire screeching to a halt. Her thin mask invaded her mouth, stretching over the opening like shrink wrap. Imani brushed the girl’s blond hair away from her tears, unlooping the PPE from her ears in the process. School policy be damned. The child needed to breathe.
“And Mom?” The question gurgled from Ava’s throat.
“Everyone is looking for her.”
Imani guided Ava’s head to her chest and belted her arms around her shoulders. She held on as sobs jolted the teen’s body, trying her best to absorb the shock. For several minutes, they stood that way, Ava’s muscles spasming as she struggled for air.
When Ava finally caught her breath, she spent it with a stream of questions. Who had killed her dad? Why had they done it? Did her mom know what had happened? Where would her mother be? Did they have her?
Imani rhythmically patted Ava’s back in response, whispering the only answer she could give. “I don’t know, honey. But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to find out.”