Migi
Caressa Sanchez was the widow of Carlos Sanchez, Sr who had passed away five months before his son's birth. Ironically. Nonetheless, Caressa never remarried, but during my search, I found out she shared an account with a man by the name of Darius Lexington. They had the joint account for almost four years now and he was a Lead Executive Accountant at one of the Bank of America branches downtown.
We all knew Loc came from money. He wasn't a crack baby or a mistake, he didn't come from the projects, and he never struggled financially.
No, he didn't come from a two-parent household, but that was because his dad died during a car wreck. However, Carlos, Sr. was a marine at the time. After his untimely death, he was awarded an honorable discharge from the U.S. Marines. The good deed gifted his family a payment of almost three hundred thousand dollars for his high standard of service.
Loc's story wasn't surprising or even the first to be told as such.
Most niggas that start dealing or affiliate with street lifestyles after a certain age are taken for jokes. It's understood that they won't last long. You don't just decide one day to start dealing drugs and doing illegal shit. Most of the time it's known that they'll be handled as a liability. For either snitching, cooperating to get themselves out of trouble, or ultimately just quitting.
Sanchez was liable to do all three.
"Aye, come look at this shit."
Walking from his bedroom, I brought the second laptop we had found during this mini raid with me. I closed some of the weird browsing histories while leading the way to Jace's voice.
"What's up?"
We had about twenty minutes before I had to leave so I could get home to shower and make our first doctor's appointment. Sehven was leaving work early today and I already told her to go straight to my house from the office.
"I just found the weirdest shit. This nigga really fuckin' wild."
Stepping to the side of Jace, he handed me the second phone found on the coffee table inside Sanchez's apartment. It was indeed another phone of his and after I was able to disable the tracking on it plus turn off the secondary signals, we powered it up to look through.
Undoubtedly, Jay had found something. "Imma kill this nigga."
A collection of photos that had been hidden and encrypted with a password. He rearranged the photos, removing them from the phone's gallery and instead to a separate file. All of them are photos of Sehven. It all started back about five weeks ago. Not long after our trip from New Orleans — not three weeks after I sent shots at him.
From grocery store runs, to shopping, being with her sister and best friend, going for dinner, at her store, and heading into the office.
He was stalking and watching her, plotting his own revenge against me. Or her. The only interesting note is, I wasn't in any of the photos — as much as we were together.
Calming myself down, I gripped the edges of the Android. Closing my eyes to count to ten because right now I was ready to murder this damn boy in broad daylight.
But....
Killing him with a shot was too easy. Nah. Hell, fuck no. He gotta suffer and I wasn't going through another person to do it. I was getting my own damn hands dirty this time. He had to die from Blood, himself. No messages, no third parties because he was playing in my face, right up under my nose.
"This nigga gon' hurt her, if you don't do some now."
"I'm not gon' kill him." He gotta fucking suffer. I couldn't just kill him. I couldn't even wrap my mind around that.
