Kori Vaughn thought her past was buried the day she left the block. Thirteen years later, a key shows up, along with a name she hasn't heard since the night everything changed. The inheritance is real but so is the danger that's been waiting for her...
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SEPTEMBER 30TH, 2025 CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 8:30AM
Excuse any mistakes
KORI POV
I didn't sleep the whole flight.
Azaria did though, knocked out with her hood over her head and headphones in before we even left the tarmac even had to wake her up a few times for snoring in my ear but it's my karma for waking her up at 3am and telling her to pack last minute after she didn't respond to my message at midnight. The whole plane ride I sat stiff the whole time, eyes on the seat in front of me, thumb running over the corner of that envelope like it could talk if I rubbed it long enough.
Landing in Chicago felt weird. The air hit different soon as we stepped out the terminal. Heavy. Like it remembered me and wasn't sure if it was happy to see me back. I wasn't sure either.
"I'm calling the car now." Azaria said, tugging her suitcase straight out the door. She looked good, even in sweats. Always did. Somehow her edges stayed laid through Chicago humidity, and my bun looked like I'd been in a fight. I adjusted the strap on my duffle and followed.
Neither of us said much on the ride. Too early for real conversation. I stared out the window instead, watching the city roll by like it was testing me. Same buildings. Same streets but it all felt smaller or maybe I felt bigger, older, and wiser now.
We didn't go straight to the lawyer's office. We checked into a hotel first, just for the day. Azaria refused to stay at any house so a BnB was out the question. Smart move.
I took a long-ass shower while she ordered food. Didn't rush it either. Let the water run hot over my back and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander back to the last time I was here. Not when we left, but before that. When things still felt whole. When Daddy was still alive. When I didn't have to question every damn thing.
He used to do this thing on Saturdays.
He'd wake up early and make too much noise in the kitchen on purpose. Pots clanking, music blasting. Oldies not that new-age smooth stuff I'm talking the real gritty vocals. Al Green, Bobby Womack, The Dramatics.
"Y'all gon' sleep all day?" He'd yell down the hallway like it wasn't 8AM.
Me and Azaria would groan from our rooms, but we always got up. Not because we wanted to because he made breakfast worth it. Thick-cut bacon. Cheesy grits. Toast with jelly already spread. Cheese eggs just the way I liked and orange juice he squeezed by hand because, "Store-bought don't hit the same."
After we ate, we'd pile into his car. Sometimes he'd take us to the park. Sometimes to that hole-in-the-wall bookstore Azaria liked, or the drive-thru ice cream spot off 71st but every time, no matter where we went, he'd roll the windows down and tell us stories. About his mama. About his brothers. About life.
