“I can’t believe I don’t know anything about this blackout,” I say, itching to pull out my phone but not wanting to be rude. “What caused it?”

“It was on purpose,” a quiet voice says, and when I look across the table, Paulette is staring at me. Her dark eyes are hard, and her voice doesn’t have a Caribbean lilt, but sounds more like an imitation of a New York accent from an old movie. “They wanted us to destroy everything, so they could come in and fix it. Turned off the lights. Started trouble in the dark. They got a foot back in the door then, a toe, but it wasn’t enough damage. After that the drugs came, all of a sudden, and the violence, and the cops. Breaking everything down, so they could come in and build it up for themselves.”

Candace sighs into the heavy silence after that statement. “When I said Paulette don’t talk much, I meant when she does, it’s illuminati mess from watching too many YouTube videos.”

Paulette’s gaze hasn’t swerved from mine. “He knows. He’s one of them, always sneaking around at night, always watching. Here to break and build, break and build.” Her voice is rising steadily, gaining strength. “Race riots, they call them, but who started them? Why would we? Who profited? He’s one of them!”

Her last words bounce off the high ceiling and reverberate in the room. Her breathing is heavy and she’s looking at me as if she sees through the smile, the goofiness, right down to the poor trash grifter core of me.

Candace leans across the table and takes Paulette’s hand. “Paulie?”

Paulette looks at Candace for a long minute, gaze unfocused, but slowly she comes back to herself, then smiles. “Hey, Candy.”

“There we go, honey.” Candace gives her hand a squeeze.

“We should get going,” Sydney says, and I feel terrible because I’m the reason we should. My mere presence was enough to give this woman a panic attack, which is annoying, because I haven’t done anything to her. And I can’t say that or defend myself because, well, Howdy fucking Doody.

I stand up. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Break and build,” Paulette mutters accusatorily, but doesn’t look my way again.

“Thank you, everyone,” Sydney says.

“Don’t be a stranger. You should come by more, even if your mother isn’t around,” Ruth says. “We’re here for you.”

Sydney nods, then goes around the table giving hugs.

I wave, still awkward, and Gracie raises her teacup to me. “If you don’t die from the tea, you can come by again, too.”

Gifford Place OurHood/privateusergroup/Rejuvenation

Emergency board meeting in the next 48 hours. Turn your notifications on for exact time—attendance is mandatory, long weekend or no.

Chapter 14

Sydney

“SHE WAS KIDDING, RIGHT?” THEO ASKS AS SOON AS OUR feet hit the slate sidewalk in front of Ms. Candace’s. “About the poison?”

His heavy brows are all bunched up and there’s a slight flush on those sharp cheekbones of his.

“I don’t know,” I say, because I’m feeling kind of evil and he’s conveniently there. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough if you—”

Nausea hits me before I can finish the joke, and not from poison tea. It’s the stomach-roiling ache of buried pain that resurfaces unexpected at the worst times, natural as a whale breaching the surface, not giving a single fuck whether boats are caught in its wake.

Tears fill my eyes and I walk a bit faster so Theo can’t see my face.

“She was joking. You’ll be fine.” I fan my face. “It’s hot as hell. I hate sweating.”

I lift the bottom of my shirt and wipe my face, hoping Theo is too distracted by either my weirdness or my exposed skin to notice the breathy sob that escapes as I wipe my “sweat” away.

I drop my shirt and adjust it at my hips, scrunching my nose a few times instead of sniffling out loud. A few yards away, leaves and branches peek through the community garden’s fence, waving in the breeze.

“Are you—” Theo starts, then stops. “Let’s go get something cold to drink from the corner store.”

“Okay.”

I wish he would take my hand and lead me there, even though it’s only a couple of buildings down, how Mommy would hold my hand when I crossed the street, even though I was old enough to watch for cars myself.

But of course he wouldn’t do that. He’s just my neighbor.

He holds the door open for me but when I step inside, I’m disoriented. Everything is clean and bright instead of the comfortingly run-down state the store had been in before. It looks like someone from some quick-makeover reality show pulled an all-nighter—the walls are white, the light fixtures are nicer, the shelves have been replaced, and apparently so has the stock. There’s a fresh-fruit-and-veggie section where the freezer full of ice cream had been. The shelves are clean enough to pass a white glove test, and there’s nary a Goya product in sight. The word organic is everywhere, and the hot-food prep area is gone. Instead, there’s a fridge with premade sandwiches, wraps, sushi, and quinoa salad.

It even smells different, the greasy odor of the grill replaced by a new scent that’s more like the lack of one.

“Abdul, this is wild,” I say. “Did you get a loan or something?”

But when my gaze searches around for the new placement of the cash register, Abdul isn’t there waiting to call me habibi and slip me a Parliament. The guy behind the counter is slightly paler, with sandy brown hair and sharp brown eyes.

“Abdul had some issues with his papers,” he says, then flashes me a smile. “I’m Tony, the new owner. Nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to becoming a valued part of the Gifford Place community.”

“What? You mean he’s . . . gone?”

“But not forgotten, clearly,” Tony says with a wink.

I turn on my heels and head to the wine fridge, my head feeling fuzzy. Abdul is gone. Grill man is gone. Just like that.

I automatically reach for the wine I’ve been buying for months, but my hand closes around a tiny bottle of kombucha health drink. I stare at it, my sluggish brain trying to catch up with this latest change, but I feel a gaze drilling into my back. When I glance to my left, Tony is leaning all the way over the counter watching me.

“Need help with anything?” he asks. “If you’re looking for the forties, we don’t sell malt liquor anymore.”

I slam the fridge door a bit too hard and walk up to pay.

“You like kombucha?” Theo asks. “It tastes like vinegar.”

I ignore him and place the bottle on the counter. My skin is crawling. There’s no lotto machine, no people standing around fantasizing about what they’ll do with their Mega Millions when they win. No bins of cheap candy. No character.

No Abdul.

The panic starts to thrum in my chest again.

“That isn’t covered by WIC,” Tony says nicely as he scans my drink. I’m starting to understand that this is the same way Josie says nice things on OurHood posts. It’s a thin veneer that if scratched away would reveal some shit I’m definitely not in a state to handle right now.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with WIC or forties, but is there any reason you’re making assumptions about my drinking habits or financial status?”

He shrugs. Smirks. Rings up the drink, which costs five damn dollars. “Just being helpful. And making sure people understand what kind of establishment this is now.”

When I pull out a twenty to pay, he makes a big show of taking out the counterfeit money tester and running the marker over it, holding it up to the light and scrutinizing it. I almost walk out but I need my money back.

He finally hands me my change, except it’s a five-dollar bill instead of a ten and a five.

“I gave you a twenty,” I say. “You stared at it long enough, you should know that.”

My politeness reserves are gone, depleted by trying to restrain my nerves, which are stretched to the breaking point.

Tony looks befuddled. “Did you? I don’t think so.”

“I. Did.”

“She did,” Theo says from beside me. “Come on, man. Give her the money.”

“Or . . . what?” Tony asks with a smile, leaning on the counter like some old drawing of a kindly neighborhood grocer.

“What?” Theo asks, the sudden bass in his voice surprising me.

“If I say she gave me a ten, who could prove otherwise?”

Tony’s voice and expression haven’t changed at all, and there’s something dangerous about him now precisely because of that.

“Let’s just go,” I say, plucking at Theo’s shirt.

“No.” When I look at Theo he is tight. “Give her the money. Just be cool and give her the money, man.”

Tony looks down at us in amusement.

“Someone needs to make a purchase in order for the drawer to open again,” Tony lies calmly.

Theo pulls out two crumpled dollar bills and throws them on the counter, then picks up a severely overpriced peanut butter cup. “I’ll take this.”