That made it worse. Ryan pushed her again, harder. Naomi moved backward, one step. Exactly one. Her gym bag swung against her hip and the bronze heron flashed beneath the fluorescent light.
Far down the corridor, a maintenance cart rolled through an intersecting hallway. Walter Hayes was pushing it. 67 years old, gray at the temples, shoulders slightly stooped after decades of lifting things younger men avoided. His left knee had been troubling him since afternoon, and he was thinking about nothing more dramatic than finishing his shift and getting home before the streets flooded. Then he heard voices.
He looked up. Five young adults stood near the loading doors. Three men, two women. Walter recognized the Carter twins from campus. Quiet girls, always polite, the ones who had helped him with an equipment case earlier that week when his knee nearly gave out.
He opened his mouth. Then Ryan grabbed Nia. His hand closed around her wrist. Nia's body went still. Not weak.
Still. Naomi's face changed. The exhaustion vanished. The hurt vanished. Even the irritation disappeared.
What remained was something Ryan had never seen in her before. Absolute focus. Take your hand off, my sister. The corridor seemed to shrink around the words. Jake's phone remained raised.
Connor stared at Ryan's hand. Rain hammered the loading doors. Ryan grinned. You going to make me? At the far end of the hall, Walter took one hurried step forward.
Then Naomi's gym bag shifted again. The small bronze bird caught the fluorescent light. Walter stopped so abruptly that the maintenance cart bumped into his hip. His eyes narrowed. He knew that bird not from Riverton.
Not from some campus club. From polished wooden floors, white uniforms, national tournament banners, crowds holding their breath before a final match, and from a man Walter had not seen alive in three years. Marcus Carter. Walter looked from the pin to Naomi, then to Nia. For one stunned second, the years seemed to fall away.
He remembered two names announced beneath bright arena lights. He remembered two adult championship divisions. He remembered Marcus standing beside the ring with his arms folded, never celebrating before the final bow. Walter's face went pale, but he wasn't looking at the twins with fear. He was looking at Ryan.
Ryan still had Nia's wrist in his hand, still smiling, still unaware. Walter whispered to himself, "Oh, son." And for the first time that night, someone in that corridor understood exactly how badly Ryan Witmore had misjudged the two women standing in front of him. Three days earlier, before the donor reception, before Ryan Whitmore blocked that corridor, before Walter Hayes recognized the little bronze bird, Naomi Carter woke to the sound of rain beginning against an apartment window in Jefferson Heights. It was 5:36 Tuesday morning.
Outside, Richmond was still dark. A city bus sighed at the corner, its brakes releasing with a long metallic breath. Tires whispered over wet pavement. Across the street, the red sign above a 24-hour market flickered against brick buildings stained darker by the rain. Naomi sat on the edge of the bed she shared a room with Nia in their small second floor apartment and pulled on her socks.
"You're making noise," Nia murmured. "You're awake." "I'm awake because you're making noise." Naomi smiled. "You were born complaining 11 minutes after you."
Exactly. I had 11 peaceful minutes. A pillow struck Naomi in the back. For a few seconds, they laughed like they had nowhere to be. Then Naomi looked at the clock.
Mom, that was enough. 20 minutes later, the twins were walking beneath one umbrella toward Ruth's kitchen. Jefferson Heights was waking around them. A delivery truck rattled past. Yellow porch lights glowed behind curtains.
A man in work boots waited beneath the bus shelter with a metal lunchbox resting between his feet. The neighborhood had never been wealthy, but Naomi remembered when it had felt permanent. Their old rental house had stood six blocks away, a narrow brick place with a porch Marcus Carter repaired himself every spring. Denise had grown herbs and coffee cans along the back steps. Naomi and Nia used to leave their karate shoes beside the kitchen door after evening practice.