Trell stood at the edge of the yard with the mug warming his hand, the air heavy around him in a way it only got near the bayou. The morning light slid across Bayou St. John in thin strokes. The surface barely moved, just a slow, lazy drag under a breeze that didn’t decide on a direction. He took a sip. The coffee sat bitter on his tongue, still hot enough to coat the back of his throat. He breathed out and watched the steam drift off.
Behind him the sliding door opened. Ant stepped out and eased it shut with one hand, his palm flattening against the glass. He skirted around the pool, shoulders pulled a little lower than usual, face holding a quiet tired that didn’t need explaining. The water behind him stayed still, blue and untouched this early.
Trell didn’t turn, only tipped his chin once when Ant stopped at his side.
“Where y’all put him?” Trell asked. His voice stayed even.
“Off Chef,” Ant said. “Rigolets side the Lake.”
Trell nodded and brought the mug back up. He watched a pelican drift down toward a half-submerged log, wings spreading, the bird landing with more grace than anything that big had any right to. It settled, head turning once toward them.
“We gonna have a problem with Boogie?” Trell asked. “I know that nigga was his baby mama’s brother.”
Ant scratched his jaw with two fingers. “I don’t know. He ain’t seem too bothered about it, but you know niggas keep that shit in they heart for years.”
Trell’s mouth twitched. Just thought moving. He turned from the water and started walking the short run along the fence. Dew sat on the grass in dull flecks, the blades brushing low against his feet. Ant followed a step behind.
“I ain’t never liked that nigga Junebug anyway,” Trell said. “Man gotta have a code and he ain’t have one. Didn’t matter whether the bitch was twenty-six, thirty-six, or sixteen, he’d put her on the corner.”
“Sixteen might be a little older than some of them,” Ant said.
Trell snorted. The sound came quick, rough, a laugh pulled from someplace dry. “Nasty ass nigga. The world a better place with him decaying in the marsh.”
They reached the back corner where the fence met the last post. Trell touched the iron with his free hand, testing it for no real reason, then let it go.
Ant watched him. “What about your girl?” he asked. “You think she gonna say something to somebody? Junebug beat the brakes off her ass.”
Trell shrugged, one shoulder lifted, dropped. “I’ll find out.”
Ant didn’t say anything after that. Just fell into step again when Trell kept moving.
Trell breathed in, the smell of the bayou carrying damp across the yard, and said, “You know, this could be a good thing. A motherfucking blessing in disguise.” He lifted his hand toward the sky, palm up. “Praise the Lord and all that shit.”
Ant raised an eyebrow. “What you mean?”
Trell walked over to him and tapped the back of his hand against Ant’s chest, light but pointed. “Who Junebug bought heroin from?”
“Us,” Ant said.
Trell nodded. “Right. Which means he bought it from Peanut.”
Ant gave a small nod, the dots settling the same way Trell laid them out.
“A wild nigga like that?” Trell said. “Not really balling? Always asking someone to front him? He’d definitely kill a nigga trying to run off on him.”
Ant took in what Trell was saying. “People gonna say you did that shit because he whooped ol’ girl, though.”
Trell waved that off like it didn’t matter enough to land. “I did that shit because that nigga didn’t understand respect, hierarchy. Order gotta be maintained.”
“I know that,” Ant said. “I’m just saying.”
Trell didn’t let that branch grow. He veered back toward the center of the yard, steps slow through the grass. “Text that nigga Boogie and ask him where Junebug lived,” he said. “Then go get Peanut’s Jesus piece out the storage and bring that shit over there.”
“Alright,” Ant said.
Trell nodded to himself, small, satisfied the way a man looked when the morning finally clicked into place. He lifted the mug again, expecting heat. The coffee had gone cold. Flat. He tilted the mug once, checked the muted sheen of the liquid, then tipped his wrist and let it fall in a loose pour into the grass.
The dark arc soaked straight in. The last drop hit without sound.
~~~
Mireya sat on the couch with one knee bent in, the other stretched out so her ribs didn’t pull. A small pile of Camila’s shirts sat to her left, warm from the dryer. She folded slowly, palms smoothing cotton flat, turning edges in until they held clean lines. The swelling along the side of her face pulled when she blinked. Her lip pulled, too. The split there had gone darker overnight. The bruise under her eye had settled into a full bloom, heavy and purple. Every shift of her body reminded her that the bruises wrapped farther than what she could see.
Her phone lay screen-down beside her. She lifted it and tapped the side button, checking the time. She needed to get ready soon. Sara expected her, and Mireya had to cover all of this before she went to get Camila. She slid the phone back to the floor and reached for another one of Camila’s shirts.
A sudden pounding hit the door. Hard. The frame vibrated. Mireya didn’t move. She kept folding, smoothing the tiny sleeves down with her thumbs. The pounding came again, louder, someone’s fist hitting fast, no pause between.
She pushed up to her feet, careful, slow, not twisting too far. Each step toward the door sent a dull ache through her side. She didn’t bother with the peephole. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, already turning back toward the couch.
Ramon walked in and slammed the door so hard the few pictures on the walls shook. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering my texts?”
Mireya lowered herself onto the couch, legs stiff. She reached into the laundry basket and held up a shirt no bigger than her forearm. “Laundry.”
Ramon stepped closer into the room. His eyes caught her face, lingered on the swollen cheek, the bruise, the split lip. “Fuck happened to you?”
She shrugged once, winced, and kept folding. “You asked me to let you know where Junebug was, didn’t you?”
Ramon’s mouth pulled tight. “And you didn’t. You was on some bullshit just sending ‘it’s done.’”
“Because it is,” Mireya said.
Ramon came farther in, shoes brushing the edge of the laundry pile. “So where is he at? That was the fucking deal. I’ll call Caine right fucking now, Mireya.”
She didn’t react. She grabbed Camila’s little Georgia Southern jersey from the hamper, the dark blue bright where the number ten sat clean in white on the front. She lifted it, held it between her hands. “This is her favorite fucking shirt,” she said. “Would wear it every day if I let her.”
Ramon let out a long breath. “Stop stalling. Where the fuck is Junebug?”
Mireya placed the jersey across her lap and started folding it. “I found him like you asked.” She kept her voice steady. “I went to talk to him… like you asked. Tried to figure out where he hangs … like you asked. Then he beat the shit out of me because of what you asked.”
She set the jersey gently on the pile, lifted her hand and pointed to the bruise around her eye. “Punched me.” She pointed to the other side. “Slapped me.” She tapped her lip. “Threw me against a wall.”
She pushed herself up from the couch, moving slow. She lifted the hem of her shirt to show the mottled bruising spread across her ribs, deep and uneven. “Slammed me on the floor. Kicked me. Probably would’ve killed me.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “But well… I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem again.”
She stepped toward him until her finger was in his face. “All of this because of what you asked. You almost got me killed, Ramon.”
Ramon leaned back a little, nostrils flaring. “I ain’t do shit. All you had to do was text me his lo.”
Mireya nodded once, the motion pulling the cut on her lip. “When you call Caine, make sure you tell him what happened to me because of you.” Her voice stayed even. “Tell him a man tried to kill his child’s mother because you sent her running behind a pimp.”
Ramon let out a sharp laugh, empty of humor. He pointed at her. “I see the play.”
Mireya turned from him, went back to the couch, lowering herself slowly. Camila’s jersey shifted on the pile and slid a little. Mireya moved it back into its place, palm staying on the number.
“So,” she said. “Do you want to call him? We can do it together.”
Ramon took two steps backward toward the door, eyes on her. His hand found the knob. He held it but didn’t turn it yet. “Who did Junebug then?”
Mireya gave a short snort of a laugh. “Isn’t it against some kind of code to talk about that?”
Ramon’s mouth twitched. He chuckled once and pulled the door open. He stepped out and let it slam behind him.
Silence filled the room again. Mireya looked down at the jersey, her fingers brushing over the raised white number, slow and careful.
~~~
Caine walked the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. Laney had told him to park at the convenience store and walk the rest. So he did. The air was already warming even though the sun hadn’t fully cleared the tops of the pines yet.
He reached the side door and pulled on it. Locked. He leaned in a little, listening. Nothing but the hum of the AC through the wall.
Footsteps moved on the other side of the door, fast and uneven. The lock twisted and the door cracked an inch. Laney slipped into view, hair pulled back quick, eyes wide in a way that didn’t match her usual calm. She yanked it open just enough for him to slide in before shoving it closed and locking it again. Her shoulder hit the door, holding it, her breath catching as she looked through the narrow pane of glass.
“You good?” Caine asked.
She held up one finger without looking at him. “Hold on,” she said. She pushed off the door and moved through the day care, her boots soft against the tile. She reached the kitchen door, unlocked it, opened it just an inch, looked through, then shut it again and relocked it.
She waved him forward with a sharp flick of her hand.
He followed her through the little maze of cubbies and laminated posters. She went straight to the biggest supply closet, opened it, and stepped in. When he followed, she closed the door behind them and hit the light. The bulb hummed, throwing white across shelves stacked with diapers, paper towels, and bins of art supplies.
“Laney,” he said. “Are you good? The fuck are you doing?”
She dragged her hand through her hair, fingers catching for a second before sliding free. She took a breath that shook at the end. “Tommy is home.”
Caine nodded once. “Okay? He was gonna come home eventually. Right?”
“He’s home,” she said again, lower, as if the word carried something else in it. She started pacing, three steps forward, three back, arms folding and unfolding. “I think Blake knows.”
Caine lifted his hands a little. “Blake is on drugs.”
“That don’t matter.” Her voice pitched up, vowels bending tight. “If he says somethin’ then Tommy’s gonna be watchin’.”
“He doesn’t pay attention to you,” Caine said. “Everybody knows that. You know that. I get it. It’s a bit of an issue but c’mon, Laney.”
She stopped and turned, eyes sharp. “No. No, no, no. He’ll know. He might already know. Blake might’ve told him already. The way he looked at me yesterday? This mornin’? He knows.”
She started pacing again. Caine stepped forward and reached out, hand closing around her arm to stop her. “Lane—”
She ripped her arm away so hard her elbow banged a shelf. “No! I’m fuckin’ married!”
Caine lifted both hands, palms out, giving her space.
She stood there breathing fast, chest rising under her T-shirt. She said it again, softer. “I’m fuckin’ married.”
He let the quiet settle before he spoke. “What do you want to do then?”
Laney looked at him, eyes running over his face, his shoulders, the door behind him. The silence stretched until she shook her head. “This is it,” she said. “This ends now. We cain’t do this anymore. We should’a never done it in the first place.”
Caine ran his hand through his dreads, letting it fall at the back of his neck before he dropped it. He nodded once. “You want me to keep working here or nah?”
Laney leaned forward onto a shelf, both hands planted, head hanging down. “You ain’t got a choice ’cause your probation. I’ll just have Mrs. Ethel tell you what to do from now on.”
“Alright, Laney.”
He turned toward the door. At the threshold he glanced back. Her lips were moving in a whisper, thumb rubbing over her wedding ring in tight circles. Her shoulders trembled just once before she steadied them.
Caine shook his head and stepped out into the hallway, moving back through the day care toward the exit.
Building toward the season finale now boys.