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They had picked me up behind some shit connected to Levin. Guns. Robberies. Shit that wasn't mine but shit I knew enough about for them to keep me sitting in that fucking room.

And they made it real simple.

Help them⁠—

or they were gonna find a way to make sure I went down right beside him.

I had a whole life outside that room.

Levin moved like he didn't give a fuck if he ever saw thirty.

I did.

Ma was already fucked up back then.

Drugs had her disappearing for days at a time.

And I remember sitting there thinking if both of us went away, who the fuck was gonna be left?

So yeah.

I talked.

Not about everything.

Not every fucking thing I knew.

But enough.

Enough to help them put pieces together they hadn't been able to connect before.

Enough that when Levin eventually got sentenced to seven years, I knew there was shit in that case that had come out of my mouth.

I just never thought he'd find out.

“You been knew?” I asked.

Levin's face didn't move.

“Long enough.”

“How?”

“That what you worried about?”

“I'm asking you a fucking question.”

“And I'm asking you one.” He stepped closer. “Why?”

I stared at him.

There it was.

Seven fucking years later.

The question I'd never had to answer because nobody had ever known to ask me.

“You wanna know why?” I snapped. “Because them niggas had me in a fucking room talking about years over shit that wasn't even mine. Yours, Levin. Your guns. Your robberies. Your fucking mess.”