She had always loved the color red.
It was the color of the hibiscus flowers in her mother's garden, of the gele her aunties wrapped tightly around their heads on Sundays, of the lipstick she wore when she wanted to feel powerful. But here, in this moment, red was something else entirely. It was on her hands, smeared across the pristine white sheets, staining the silk slip clinging to her skin. It was congealing on the cold marble floor, pooling beneath Lucas's motionless body.
A slow, dull throb pulsed at her temples, the kind of ache that came from drinking too much, from smoking just enough to lose the edges of reality. Her mouth was dry, tasting of alcohol and regret. The room around her was wrecked—glass shards glittered on the floor, furniture overturned, pillows ripped open, their contents spilling out like secrets she couldn't quite remember. The air reeked of expensive whiskey, sweat, and something metallic.
She blinked.
Lucas wasn't moving.
Her breath hitched, a sharp intake that sent a lance of pain through her ribs. She tried to piece together the night before, but the memories were jagged, fragmented like the broken glass scattered around her. She and Lucas had been drinking—celebrating? Arguing? She wasn't sure. The flashes came in bursts: his voice rising, the tension coiling between them like a snake. A name on a phone screen. A lie. Accusations thrown like daggers.
And then—
The gun.
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs as she willed herself to look at him. Lucas lay on his back near the foot of the bed, his shirt soaked through with blood. His eyes—eyes that had once looked at her with love, with anger, with something in between—were wide open, staring at nothing.
No, no, no.
She stumbled backward, her bare feet crunching over glass. Pain flared in her arm, and she looked down to see a deep gash along her forearm, the edges jagged as if she'd been grabbed—no, fought. Her skin stung, but her mind barely registered it over the rising wave of nausea.
"I didn't… I wouldn't…" she whispered, her voice hoarse, barely a sound.
But the gun was there. On the floor. Close to her hand. A sleek black pistol, its weight familiar and terrifying all at once.
She wanted to reach for it. She wanted to throw it away, as if that could undo everything. But then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A loud pounding on the door.
"Sir? Ma'am? This is hotel security! We need you to open up!"
The sound shattered her paralysis.
Run.
The word screamed in her mind, overriding every other thought. Her breath came in sharp gasps as she forced herself to move, her body sluggish, uncooperative. She stumbled toward the bathroom, nearly slipping on the blood-slick floor, catching herself against the sink. The reflection in the mirror was alien—her dark curls in wild disarray, her skin smeared with blood, her wide, terrified eyes.
She had to go.
Her hands shook as she yanked open the bathroom cabinet, grabbing a towel, frantically wiping her arms, her face. But it was useless. The blood had soaked into her clothes, under her nails, into her very skin.
Another knock, this time firmer.
"Sir? Ma'am? We're coming in!"
Tara whirled around, her mind racing. She grabbed Lucas's jacket off the chair, pulling it over her slip, hoping it would cover enough. Her purse—where was her purse? She spotted it near the bed, half-buried under a pile of overturned books. She lunged for it, wincing as pain shot up her arm.
The door handle rattled.
She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
There was only one way out.
She sprinted toward the balcony, her heart pounding as she threw open the heavy glass door. The city stretched below her—Manhattan at its quietest, the pale glow of dawn creeping over the skyline. The hotel was high—too high—but there was another balcony just a few feet over.
She could make it.
The door behind her burst open.
"Tara Onwudiwe! Hands where we can see them!"
She didn't think.
She jumped.
~*~*~
Tara had never seen a place like New York before.
Back in Lagos, the world had been loud and warm, the streets packed with hawkers shouting over each other, children running barefoot, and the scent of suya and exhaust filling the air. The sun always felt close, pressing down on her skin, and the sky stretched wide and blue, endless. But here, in this place her mother called America, everything felt… different.
The air was cold, crisp in a way that made her nose sting. The sky wasn't wide at all—it was swallowed up by towering buildings made of glass and steel, standing taller than anything she had ever seen. The streets were loud, but not with the sounds of home. Instead, there was a constant hum of traffic, the honking of impatient drivers, the deep roar of subway trains beneath their feet.
Brooklyn was not what she had imagined when her mother whispered about a better life. The apartment they moved into wasn't as grand as the ones in the movies she had watched on her uncle's TV back in Nigeria. It was small, the walls a dull off-white, the pipes creaking when the heat kicked in. But it was theirs. And her mother smiled when they stepped inside, even though Tara could see the exhaustion behind her eyes.
Ijeoma Onwudiwe worked too hard.
She woke up before the sun and came home late, her uniform smelling of bleach and sweat. Some nights, Tara would wait up for her, sitting on the old couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, fighting sleep. Her mother always scolded her for staying up, but then she would sigh and pull Tara into her lap, rocking her gently like she used to when Tara was a baby.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The door creaked open, and Tara jumped up from the couch, running into her mother's arms. But instead of lifting her up playfully, Ijeoma just held her tightly, burying her face in Tara's curls. Her breath was shaky.
Tara pulled back and looked up at her. "Mama, why are you looking sad?"
Ijeoma let out a tired laugh and ran a hand over her daughter's cheek. "Ah, my Tara. You always know when something is wrong."
Tara frowned. "Did something happen at work?"
Her mother hesitated. Then, in a quieter voice, she said, "They don't respect me there. They think because I am a cleaner, I am nothing."
Tara's little fists clenched. "That's not true! You're my mummy."
Ijeoma smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, my love."
Tara climbed onto the couch beside her, sitting on her knees. "You should tell somebody. If people are being mean, you can tell the police, right?"
Her mother tensed, and for a long time, she didn't speak. When she finally did, her voice was different—softer, but also heavy, as if she was carrying something too big for words.
"Oh, nwa m," Ijeoma murmured, pulling Tara close. "I wish you could stay innocent forever."
Tara frowned. "I will."
Her mother chuckled. "No, my love. You will grow up, and you will see that there is no justice in this world."
Tara sat up straighter. "Then I won't grow up!"
Ijeoma blinked. Then, to Tara's surprise, she threw her head back and laughed—a real, full, loud laugh that shook her entire body. It was the first time in a long time that Tara had seen her mother truly laugh, and she felt proud of herself for making it happen.
She hugged her mother tightly, and Ijeoma wrapped her arms around her daughter, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Ah, Tara. You are too much."
Tara grinned. "Promise me I don't have to grow up."
Ijeoma smiled and tapped her daughter's nose. "You will always be my little girl."
Outside, the city never slept. The lights from the streets below flickered through the window, casting strange shapes on the walls. The hum of sirens in the distance, the chatter of people walking home late, the endless, restless movement of New York.
Tara didn't know it then, but the city had already begun its work on her.
It would not let her stay young forever.