Amara's day

Patricia Hargrove sat across from Amara in the corner booth at the diner in a camel coat that cost more than Amara's rent. Patricia placed her hands on the table and told Amara about her daughter Margot, seventeen, a junior at a private school in Westchester who had attempted suicide six weeks ago. The answers, Patricia said, pointed to one person: Destiny Washington. Sixteen years old. Margot's best friend since freshman year. Black, like Amara. Patricia said this with the particular tone of white people who believed naming race made them immune to racial thinking. Robert Hargrove said nothing for the first twenty minutes. He watched Amara the way men with money watched anyone they were deciding to buy something from. Robert slid a manila envelope across the table. Inside was a check. Five figures. Amara felt the familiar cold click in her chest—the one she got when money arrived before the job was earned. She took the envelope.