going to attract loads of publicity. If we save even one woman from getting involved with a man like Eugene, then it’ll be well worth whatever we have to spend.”
Mrs. Washington nodded for the first time. “Well, what would the lawsuit say and what—”
“I have a draft of the complaint right here.” Nichelle pulled a folder from her purse, took out a thick document, and handed it to her. “Most of this stuff is legal jargon. Basically, you’d be suing for wrongful death and intentional infliction of emotional distress.”
Mrs. Washington scanned the first few pages, then got up from the table. She moved the frying pan from the stove to the sink and began scrubbing it with a brush.
After several nerve-racking minutes, Mrs. Washington set the frying pan down on the counter and turned around to face them.
“You’re right,” she said, the doubt gone from her face. “Go ahead. Sue that boy.”
Chapter 9
T he Monday after Maya’s funeral, Special watched raindrops pelt the window outside her office. She raised her mug to her lips, then pulled it away, surprised that her coffee was now cold. She had just refilled the cup in the breakroom a second ago.
Hadn’t she?
The clock on the corner of Special’s desk told her it was almost eleven o’clock. She’d been spacing for nearly an hour. Special knew that the rage she felt was not healthy, but she couldn’t restrain it. An only child like Special, Maya had been more like a sister than a cousin. They spent every summer together as kids, celebrated birthdays that were only days apart and shared a special closeness their mothers noticed before they could talk.
Everyone thought that her volatile mental state was caused solely by Maya’s death. In reality, she’d been wrestling with more than that. Special had become obsessed with the possibility that Clayton, her new man, might not be all that he appeared.
She turned away from the window and picked up a framed photograph of the two of them at Venice Beach. Clayton was an engineer for a defense contractor in D.C. They’d met several months ago at a National Urban League convention. Despite the difficulties of a long distance relationship, they’d become pretty serious. But if a brother like Eugene was gay, how could she know for sure that Clayton wasn’t? He didn’t look or act suspect, but that didn’t mean a thing.
After all, she
had
been fooled before. Not long after finding out about Maya’s illness, she had experienced her own HIV scare. It started when a coworker sent her a link to a website for men on the down low. When she browsed through the pictures of the handsome, masculine-looking brothers, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. None of them looked effeminate in any way. Hell, she would’ve been open to hooking up with half of them based on their looks alone.
She was just about to close the disgusting site when the photograph of a sexy, shirtless man practically jumped off the screen. The name underneath his picture identified him as Charles, but Special knew him as Ronald. Not Charles. They’d met at the Black Ski Summit in Vail and after returning to L.A., they’d had a short, but intense relationship.
She could still recall the one night they’d carelessly neglected to use a condom. At the time, her only fear had been pregnancy, not HIV. Later, after seeing Ronald’s face on that website, she became paralyzed by the possibility that
she
might be infected. She had confided in Vernetta, who insisted that she get tested right away. It took ten days for her to gather the courage, and to her relief, she was HIV negative.
There was a knock on her office door, but Special didn’t hear it.
Her coworker, Araceli Gonzales, stuck her head inside. “Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
Special jumped, spilling coffee onto her leather desk blotter. “I guess I was daydreaming.” She reached for a wad of napkins from a drawer and started wiping up the mess.
“Are you ready?”