The reporter looked surprised.
“Why not?”
“Because I keep thinking about what happens to the next person who isn’t.”
That answer became the headline.
Darius hated that too.
Not because it was misquoted.
Because headlines made thoughtful things look finished.
Nothing felt finished.
The house at 4212 Crest View took weeks to feel normal.
For several days after the incident, Darius found himself looking toward the street whenever an engine slowed.
Not fear.
Assessment.
He had done the same thing professionally for years.
Now his body performed the calculation before his mind asked for it.
A patrol car passed one evening.
Darius stopped washing dishes.
Watched through the kitchen window until it disappeared.
Then stood there longer than necessary.
He told nobody.
Especially not Camille.
He had postponed telling her about the incident.
Not because he intended to hide it forever.
He wanted the case stabilized before introducing the fear into her life.
Camille had already lost one parent suddenly.
Darius refused to create another imagined danger she could not control while she was away at school.
So when she called and asked how the move was going, he said:
“Slow.”
“Did you build the shelf?”
“Working on it.”
“You’ve had three weeks.”
“I have a job.”
“Excuses.”
“You have a desk.”
“That’s different.”
She asked about the neighbors.
Darius told her about Harold.
Did not mention the officers.
She asked whether her room got good light.
“Yes.”
“Send picture.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’re seeing it in person.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Genetic.”
“Mom wasn’t like that.”
“No.”
Darius smiled.
“She was worse.”
Camille became quiet.
Then she laughed softly.
“Yeah.”
Two weeks before the holiday break, Camille finished an assignment early and decided she had no reason to stay at school.
Darius received a text while kneeling on the floor of her bedroom surrounded by bookshelf pieces.
Taking train. There around 4.
He looked at the half-built shelf.
Then at the clock.
“Of course.”
He abandoned the instruction manual.
Put coffee on.
Checked the guest bathroom.
Moved three boxes from the upstairs hall into his office so the house looked less unfinished.
At 4:17, a rideshare stopped outside.
Camille came through the front door carrying a duffel and laptop case.
She froze in the entryway.
Darius leaned against the kitchen doorway.
“Well?”
She looked around.
“Smaller than the photos.”
“It is not.”
“I’m kidding.”
She walked slowly.
Living room.
Staircase.
Windows.
Then she saw the photograph.
Sandra and Camille at Virginia Beach.
Darius had finally mounted it at the center of the living-room wall.
Camille stopped.
“You put Mom up first.”
“Of course.”
She looked at him.
The expression was Sandra’s.
Not quite a smile.
But holding everything a smile would have needed to say.
Camille dropped her duffel.
“Show me the kitchen.”
He did.
She opened cabinets.
“You put glasses here?”
“Yes.”
“Wrong.”
“I’ve lived here three weeks.”
“And already made mistakes.”
“The plates are correct.”
“Barely.”
He showed her the back porch.
Empty.
“You need furniture.”
“I know.”
“Plants.”
“No.”
“Plants.”