Gypsy king

“I’d be honored to write that about her. Do you have any pictures? I’d love to include some of your favorites.”

“I’d like that.”

For the next hour, I sat beside Genevieve on her couch as she went through plastic tubs of old pictures and mementos from her childhood. They’d all been at Amina’s house, and though she’d packed them up and brought them to Colorado, she confessed to not having the courage to have gone through them yet.

“Thanks for sitting with me.” She fit the lid on the last box. “I’m sure this was more crazy than you were expecting when you came here. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I put my hand over hers. “I’m glad I could be here.”

The truth was, the longer I sat with Genevieve, the more I liked her. She told story after story about her mother as we looked at old pictures. Ones from road trips the two of them had taken. Photos of a few special camping trips in the Colorado mountains.

Genevieve had told me about how Amina would always give a few dollars to a homeless man begging on a corner, even though as a single mother, she hadn’t had much extra to spare. She’d taught Genevieve to be strong, never quit and to live an honest life.

After hearing it all, I knew my accusations in the garage that Amina could have been in on the setup with Draven were off base. Amina hadn’t been a deceiver.

And she’d raised a lovely daughter.

In every photo, Amina’s bright, smiling face was present. When she stood by her daughter, the two were always touching—a hand hold, an arm over the shoulder, one leaning on the other. Their bond was special and seeing it through the pictures made me more determined to tell Amina’s story.

For mother.

And daughter.

Amina deserved to be remembered for more than her death.

“This was actually perfect,” I told Genevieve. “I feel like I know your mom now. I hope my story can do her memory justice. May I ask one more question, off the record?”

“Sure.” She pivoted on the couch, giving me her attention.

“In all these photos, it was mostly just the two of you.” Even as a baby, the photos had been of only Amina and Genevieve. There’d been the occasional friend or neighbor included, but the vast majority of the photos were of mother and daughter. “What about your father?”

“Mom never talked about him. Never.” Her shoulders fell. “I’d ask. She’d say he was a nice man but not a part of my life. She always said he was a mistake but that he gave her the best gift in the world. And you know, I didn’t push. I was good with that answer because I had her. She was enough.”

“I can see that.”

“Except now that she’s gone, I wish I knew who he was. If he’s even still alive. It would be nice to know if I had another parent out there.”

My gut was screaming that Amina’s secrecy about her daughter’s lineage and the secret boyfriend were not a coincidence. Could this mystery boyfriend be Genevieve’s father?

“Did she ever tell you his name?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

If Genevieve’s father was the boyfriend, it would explain everything. Why Amina didn’t want Genevieve to meet Lee. Why she hid him from everyone. Because she wasn’t ready to introduce father and daughter.

My mind was racing, wondering how this man fit into the picture. Was he the killer? Would he try and contact Genevieve now? Did he even know he had a daughter?

More questions flew through my mind when Genevieve destroyed my theories with a single sentence. “Mom didn’t tell me his name, only that people called him Prez.”

Prez. Where had I heard that name before? No, not a name. A nickname.

Prez.

My racing mind screeched to a halt.

We’re with you, Prez.

In our meeting in the garage, Emmett had said that to Draven. He’d called Draven Prez.

I looked at Genevieve, focusing on her eyes. I knew those eyes. Like Draven had given his brown hair to his son.

He’d given those brown eyes to his daughter.