Chapter 4 - What Keisha Was Told
Keisha Grant did not sleep in Marcus’s house that night.
She drove home with Darius in silence.
The keys remained on Marcus’s kitchen counter.
Marcus called three times before she reached her apartment.
She let every call ring out.
Darius sat beside her, staring through the windshield.
Finally he said, “You really didn’t know?”
Keisha tightened her hands around the steering wheel.
“No.”
“He lied to you.”
“I know.”
“About a lot.”
“I know, Darius.”
Her son looked toward her.
“I’m not blaming you.”
“I know.”
But she did blame herself.
Not for the car.
For ignoring the small inconsistencies because Marcus was charming when questioned and generous when observed.
He remembered restaurant reservations.
He paid for weekend trips.
He praised Darius’s grades.
He showed up with groceries when Keisha worked late.
He was attentive in ways her ex-husband had rarely been.
When Marcus said Jordan did not visit much because eighteen-year-olds wanted freedom, Keisha believed him.
When he said Jordan’s mother spoiled him, Keisha nodded.
When he said Jordan already had a Civic, she had no reason to interrogate the story.
Until Jordan appeared in that driveway wearing a work badge.
Until he said two buses.
Until he held out a savings envelope like evidence of his own loyalty.
At 10:16 p.m., Marcus finally texted.
This is getting blown out of proportion.
Keisha stared.
Then another.
Jordan and Alicia have always known how to create drama together.
She called him.
Marcus answered immediately.
“Finally.”
“Do not start this conversation by blaming your son.”
He went quiet.
Keisha stood by her bedroom window.
“Did Jordan ask you for help buying a car?”
“Yes.”
“And you told him you couldn’t afford it?”
“I told him now wasn’t a good time.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Marcus exhaled.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell me he already had a Honda Civic?”
“I said he had access to one.”
“No. You told me Alicia bought him a Civic.”
“Keisha—”
“Did you lie?”
Silence.
“Marcus.”
“Yes.”
The answer landed harder because he gave it reluctantly.
Keisha closed her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want every conversation about helping Darius to turn into a comparison.”
“You created the comparison.”
“I was trying to do something nice.”
“With a fourteen-thousand-dollar car?”
“It was twelve-nine before taxes.”
Keisha almost laughed.
“That’s your defense?”
“I’m saying you’re making it sound like I bought him a Mercedes.”
“You bought my seventeen-year-old son a car while telling your own son you had no money.”
“My son is eighteen.”
“So?”
“He has a job.”
“So does Darius.”
“Part-time.”
“So does Jordan.”
Marcus’s voice sharpened.
“You don’t understand the history.”
“Then explain it.”
He paused.
“Jordan expects Alicia and me to solve things for him.”
Keisha remembered the worn envelope.
“That boy saved three thousand dollars.”
“He needs to learn that life doesn’t always close the gap for you.”
“Did life close the gap for you?”
Marcus said nothing.
Keisha frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Answer me.”
“My situation was different.”
“Your mother bought you your first car.”
Silence.
Keisha had met Marcus’s mother, Lillian, twice.
Lillian had proudly told the story at Christmas.
A used Oldsmobile.
Marcus had been eighteen.
Keisha’s skin prickled.
“You forgot she told me that, didn’t you?”
“My mother helped.”
“She paid for most of it.”
“That was thirty years ago.”
“And somehow the lesson of independence only improved with inflation?”
“Keisha.”
“Why Darius?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A serious one.”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“I care about him.”
“I know.”
“I wanted him to know that.”
Keisha stared at the dark parking lot below her window.
“Or you wanted me to know.”
Marcus didn’t answer.
There it was.
She whispered, “You bought that car for me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’ve been trying to prove you’re different from Darren since we started dating.”
Her ex-husband.
Marcus hated comparisons to him.
“You wanted to prove you would show up for my son.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing—if you don’t have to reject your own son to do it.”
Marcus’s voice became defensive.
“Jordan has two parents.”
“So does Darius.”
“He barely sees his father.”
“That does not turn you into his replacement.”
“I never said it did.”
“You behaved like it did.”
Keisha sat on the edge of her bed.
“Where did the down payment come from?”
The question came from nowhere.
Or maybe not.
Marcus became too quiet.
Keisha’s heartbeat changed.
“Marcus?”
“I used savings.”
“Which savings?”
“My savings.”
She listened to his breathing.
Seven months together had taught her something about Marcus.
When telling the truth, he answered quickly.
When shaping the truth, he repeated nouns.
My money.
My house.
My decision.
My savings.
Keisha said, “Send me the dealership paperwork.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Because my son’s name is on that paperwork.”
“Technically mine is.”
Keisha stood.
“What?”
“I bought it in my name. I was going to add Darius after we handled insurance.”
“You bought a car for my minor son without putting me on anything?”
“It was a surprise.”
“No. It was control.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Send me the paperwork.”
“Keisha—”
“Tonight.”
She ended the call.
Darius stood in her doorway.
“How bad?”
Keisha looked at him.
“I don’t know yet.”
His face tightened.
“I don’t want the car.”
“You’re not keeping it.”
Relief crossed his face.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked down.
“What?”
“Jordan texted.”
Keisha’s stomach tightened.
“What did he say?”
Darius turned the screen toward her.
One sentence.
Do you know what dealership Marcus used?
Keisha looked at her son.
Then at her own phone.
Marcus still had not sent the paperwork.
She typed the dealership name to Jordan.
Thirty seconds later, three dots appeared.
Jordan replied.
Thank you.
Keisha stared at those words.
Polite.
Controlled.
Nothing like the spoiled, resentful son Marcus had described.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time Marcus had finally sent a photograph.
Buyer’s order.
Vehicle price.
Fees.
Financing.
Down payment.
Six thousand dollars.
Keisha enlarged the image.
At the bottom, beneath the payment section, was a handwritten notation from the finance manager.
Cashier’s check — M. Price.
She closed her eyes.
Six thousand.
Exactly enough to turn suspicion into a question.
She forwarded the image to Jordan.
Then she typed:
I think your father has lied to both of us.
Jordan’s answer came quickly.
No.
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A second message appeared.
I think he lied to all of us.
