Chapter 2 WHO IS THAT?

The air in the restaurant became heavy. Somewhere behind me, a fork hit the floor and nobody picked it up.

"Your daughter?" My voice came out thin. "You don't have a daughter, Marcus. You abandoned her before she was born, remember?"

Marcus smiled. The chair legs scraped across the floor as he pulled it out, sat down at my clean table, and crossed his legs like he owned the place.

"Open it."

I did not move.

"Open the envelope," he said in a commanding tone.

My fingers felt like ice. I tore the flap and pulled out the first page. A court seal was printed at the top. I read the first line once, then again, then again, just to make sure I wasn't seeing things because of exhaustion.

PETITION FOR FULL CUSTODY. Petitioner: Marcus Bell.

My eyes raced down the page.

The mother works as a waitress. The mother earns less than the legal minimum to support a child. The mother lives in a one-room apartment. The child has a serious heart condition.

And at the bottom, one line in bold.

A waitress with a sick child in a one-room home cannot be called a fit mother.

The paper began to shake in my hand. It took me a second to realize it was my hand.

"You left," I whispered. "You left us. You bastard, and now you show your face."

"I was young."

"She was inside me, innocent and unborn, and you still left anyway."

Marcus shrugged. "I'm back now. I have money, a house, and I can fully pay for the treatment of our daughter's heart condition." He tapped the page. "What do you have? A uniform and sixty-three dollars?"

I froze.

How does he know the exact number?

At the kitchen door, Mr. Grady stood with his arms folded and a big grin on his face.

Marcus stood up, buttoned his jacket, and said, "The judge was grateful enough to give you three months to prove you can provide a stable income and shelter for our daughter." He leaned close, and I smelled his expensive cologne. He chuckled. "You and I both know you can't."

My fist was already closed. It was so easy. One step and one punch, right in the middle of his perfect teeth.

I thought of a small hand in mine.

I opened my fingers.

Marcus watched me do it. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, like he had been hoping I would swing.

Why? Why would he want me to hit him?

"See you in court, Jaws."

He walked out. Through the window, I watched him climb into the back of the black car. The engine growled. The car rolled away slowly, like it wanted me to watch.

I walked home, the envelope pressed against my chest.

The streetlights flickered. Wind pushed old newspaper along the sidewalk. Every few steps, I looked over my shoulder.

There was no one there.

At the corner of my street, I stopped.

A poster was taped to the lamp post. The paper was black and glossy, and the red letters seemed to glow in the dark.

FEMALE UNDERGROUND FIGHT COMPETITION.

WINNER TAKES 300,000 DOLLARS.

NO RULES. NO MERCY. SIGN-UPS CLOSE TOMORROW AT MIDNIGHT.

Underneath was a drawing of a red fist.

I stared at it.

With that kind of money, all my problems could go away. Mimi's surgery, a better place to live, and much more.

No, I told myself. Don't even think about it.

But my eyes never left the poster, like a hungry animal staring at its prey. My hands, inside my jacket pockets, slowly curled.

The noise came back first.

Thousands of people, screaming. The heavy clang of a cage door closing behind me.

I was nineteen years old again.

Across the ring stood Tessa Rowe, a tall girl with a scar on her chin and a smile full of hate. We were in round three. My lip was split. My left eye was closing quickly.

"Jada!"

Elias's voice cut through the noise. He leaned over the ropes with his shirt soaked through, his dark eyes burning.

"Stop backing up! She's pushing you to the wall!"

"I know!" I spat red onto the mat.

"Use your left hand! Your left!" he screamed.

Tessa charged at full speed.

I did not step back this time. I slipped under the wild right hook, close enough to feel the wind of it. I stepped in and threw my left with everything I had.

Crack.

Tessa's head snapped back. Her knees bent. Her hands dropped. She fell like a cut tree.

The referee rushed in and waved his arms. The entire place exploded.

Elias was already climbing over the ropes. He grabbed me by the shoulders, and for a second he said nothing. His eyes were wet.

"You never dropped it," he said roughly. "Not once."

"You shouted at me the whole fight!"

He chuckled. "That's because I knew you could do it."

He held me a moment longer than a coach should. Then he let go, and both of us pretended it hadn't happened. I had been pretending for seven years.

That was my last fight.

I just hadn't known it yet.

"Are you alright, miss?"

I blinked. An old man walking his dog had stopped near me. I was standing on the sidewalk with my fists clenched so tightly that my nails had cut my palms.

"Oh, me? I'm fine," I said. "Thank you."

I took one last look at the poster. Then I turned and climbed the stairs to my small apartment. The hallway smelled like Mrs. Okafor's pepper soup, a native dish from her home country.

Mrs. Okafor was asleep in the armchair. Mimi lay curled in the narrow bed, one arm around her stuffed lion, her breathing slow and steady.

I sat on the floor right next to her, listening to her breath.

Ninety days, the doctor had said at the last visit. Maybe less.

I did not remember when I began to cry.

I took out my phone and opened a blank message. I didn't know who to send it to. I only knew I wanted to write help to someone, anyone at all.

A sound outside the door made me freeze in my tracks.

A knock.

Soft. Slow. Four times.

My heart jumped. It was almost one in the morning. Who could it be?

I crossed the room quietly and looked through the peephole.

A man stood in the hall, tall and broad, in a black hoodie. His face was half hidden in the dark. Tattoos crawled up his neck and over his hands.

He raised his head.

My breath stopped.

I knew those dark eyes from anywhere. For seven years I had told myself I did not miss them. My heart called me a liar.

I opened the door.

"Seven years," said Elias Kane quietly. "And you're still standing with your left hand low."

No hello. No sorry. Just my old mistake, pointed out like no time had passed.

His gaze moved past me, into the room, to the small shape of the girl sleeping in the bed.

"Jada," he said. His voice cracked. "Who is that?"