Bill let out a sigh of frustration tinged with hopelessness. “I am telling you, sir, I will take the fall on Ronnie Malvo if you just try. Can you please, sir, just try to find my child?” He sounded like Marnie King begging. And Darren was reminded of her and Dana’s tears. The love here was real. Bill King was willing to take a capital murder charge to help find Levi. And yet Darren hesitated.

“What makes you think he’s still alive?”

“What choice do I have?” Bill said, eyes watering. “That child is my only hope that my time on this planet, the shit I’ve done, can be turned around.”

“But it can’t be, Bill,” Darren said, feeling a hot stone lodge in his throat so his voice came out hard and mean. “I help you find your son, and who gives Keisha and Jarrod their daddy back? How does that work? You telling me your redemption matters more than theirs? You think that saving your white son—who, by the way, is probably a racist shit just like his dad, so you can clear the little fantasy that he’s not out of your head now—you think that will make it all right for Keith’s kids?”

Bill ran his grimy fingers through his closely cropped hair; the chains connected to his handcuffs rattled against the table. He seemed beat by this, undone by Darren’s withholding of praise for his moral rebirth. He so badly wanted this black man to pat him on the back for what millions of people managed with ease: not hating every black person they saw. Bill pleaded for grace. “I am laying my body on the line for my sins, man. Every day. Every day.”

Darren looked directly into Bill’s watery eyes. “And it still ain’t enough.”