After Eight years, Ghenesis Santiago leaves for Atlanta, Ga to try having a relationship with her father and his new family. While having to maintain her senior year in highschool and working with her brother and his Crew under her father's orders...
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“You don’t seem shaken up by the news.”
The words landed flat, sharp as a paper cut. I was sittin’ inside the precinct in a cold-ass interview room, metal table bolted to the floor, fluorescent lights buzzin’ like they had a personal vendetta against my nerves. Two agents sat across from me, suits crisp, faces unreadable. My ankles were already swellin’, shoes feelin’ tighter by the minute, and nausea crept up my throat thanks to the heavy-handed cologne one of ‘em had on. It was thick—burnt cedar and arrogance—made my stomach roll worse than it already was.
“I am,” I said evenly. “It’s just… I know my brother didn’t do it.”
It took everything in me not to say husband.
Agent Moss leaned back in his chair like he had all night. “Well, I have evidence that says otherwise.”
He tossed a stack of photographs onto the table. They fanned out messy—street corners washed in bad lighting, half-lit alleys, trucks backed up under flickerin’ lamps. Zeus. Nico. Dice. Mason. All caught mid-motion, hands wrapped around boxes, shoulders tense, bodies movin’ with purpose.
I studied them one by one. Took my time. Let my eyes trace every edge, every shadow. Not a single photo had me in it. Not one.
I don’t see myself in not of these pictures....here, Because I’m on bed rest. Zues made sure of that.
Moss tapped one picture with his finger. “Your brother just got out the pen, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he continued, his tone sharpenin’, “activity like this is exactly how people end up goin’ right back. Especially when it lines up with the murder of Ms. Garcia.”
He slid another stack toward me.
These were different. Crime scene photos. Anisha laid out wrong, body stiff, ground dark beneath her like it had swallowed her whole. My stomach clenched hard, but I refused to look away. I wasn’t gon’ give them the reaction they wanted.
“As messed up as this is,” I said quietly, “my brother didn’t do this.”
“And these photos?” Keller pressed, nudgin’ the earlier ones closer. “You expect us to believe this is legal?”
I leaned forward just a little. “Those photos show my brother moving medical supplies into a clinic my father donated to. I’m not stupid.”
The room went quiet. Heavy. The kind of silence that presses against your chest. The agents exchanged a look, then Moss closed his folder without sayin’ a word.
Finally, Keller spoke. “How do you know your brother didn’t kill her?”
I sighed, slow, tired of explainin’ what should’ve been obvious. “Because he comes home every night. Same time. Ten p.m.”
Moss tilted his head. “And you know that how?”
I blinked once. Let the silence stretch. Then said it plain.
“Because we swaddle. If you know what I mean.”
Both agents froze.
Keller’s eyes went wide before he could stop himself. Moss’s jaw tightened hard, lips pressin’ thin. They finally understood the kind of certainty I was speakin’ from.
That was when the door swung open.
Charles walked in first, Maddie right behind him. My father’s face was thunder—eyes sharp, jaw tight, suit crisp like he’d been ready for war. His gaze flicked to me for half a second, then snapped back to the agents.
My heart started racin’, poundin’ so loud I was sure they could hear it.
