"Not that often," replied Kyara. "Mostly when something reminds me."
"Reminds you?"
"Of my father's death."
"Tell me." His voice was almost a whisper.
"It's better if I don't talk about this." She felt like she was floating, their voices alone in the dark.
"This is better?" he asked, pushing gently.
"Mostly." She tried to shrug, her skin rubbing under his hands.
"It doesn't have to be me," he said, "but it should be someone. You can't wake up screaming for the rest of your li
fe."
"No. It should be you." Even as she said it, Kyara realized it was true.
Jason shifted beneath her, holding her more tightly.
"I'm here."
And, for the first time since she'd given her statement the police months ago, Kyara told.
"My father was a preacher. He grew up in a rough neighborhood. Plus, it was the sixties. Not exactly a great time for Black folk in Atlanta. He always preferred to work in neighborhoods like the one where he grew up. He said he wasn't that clever a man, so it was best if he worked somewhere where the need was the easiest to see." Kyara's voice grew stronger as she spoke, the memory of her father flooding back.
"These days a lot of those neighborhoods are in gang territory. Papa always allowed them to come to service, but not to wear their colors. Mostly they respected him, I think. Papa always said that, in their own way, they were just trying to look out for their own flocks, the way he was looking out for his.
"But sometimes, one of them would come to him, trying to get out. Understand, the gangs watch their members, especially the ones who seem nervous. Not when they were with Papa, though. He was just a local preacher, and one who didn't even speak out against them, much. They would come to him, and he'd get them a new place to live somewhere else.
Kyara stopped for a moment, then, trying to ready herself for the next part of the story. It felt unreal to tell it, like a book report on something which had happened to someone else, someone far away.
"They found out, caught him with a man he was trying to help. Well, a boy, really. He was younger than me, though he had a five-year-old daughter, Keisha. I was there when ... when it happened.”
Sorrow washed over her, threatening to drag her under again.
Oh Papa, I should have done more.
"I couldn't save him," she said, her voice breaking. "I didn't even try. I just stared like some stupid kid. I stared and held Keisha and didn't do anything to save him."
Jason held her again for a long time.
"Kyara, I wasn't there. I don't know. But gang hits, aren't they usually ... could you have saved him?" Jason's voice was compassionate, but strong, supporting.
I know it's dumb to blame myself. He had four bullets in him. But that doesn't change how I feel.
"I could have tried," Kyara insisted.
"You could have," Jason agreed. "But instead you comforted a five-year-old girl whose father had just died. I think you're not giving yourself much credit."
If only I were the person he sees, longed Kyara.
"It's more than that," Kyara said, bracing herself.
"More?"
"I knew one of the killers. He ... I was dating him."