IMANI

Ava was determined to read the articles. As they walked the three blocks to Imani’s house, Melissa’s daughter kept slowing to type into her phone’s web browser. Each time, Imani redirected Ava’s attention to a traffic signal or passerby or pavement crack, providing just enough distraction to prevent her from clicking search. By the time they reached her home, Imani had resorted to indicating every sidewalk seam to “watch out for.”

She could have confiscated the device for Ava’s own good, as St. Catherine’s had. But snatching something from someone who’d already lost so much seemed wrong to Imani. Moreover, it wasn’t a Melissa thing to do. Her friend had always been a more permissive parent, erring on the side of spoiling her only child rather than enforcing humility and deference to authority figures. It was a parenting style far easier to adopt when there were sufficient family funds to ensure working for the man would never be required. Imani could not afford to similarly indulge her own kids.

“Honey.” Imani addressed Ava as if she were a wild horse that might spook. The Walkers lived only a few blocks away. It wouldn’t take much for Ava to run there, perhaps breaking through the police tape before some cop stopped her from stepping in blood.

Ava looked up from her cell, moving her head just enough for Imani to make out the shape of headlines on her screen. As soon as Imani opened the door, Melissa’s daughter would sprint to some silent corner and start scrutinizing every word written about her dad’s death—and every theory in the comments. No doubt some of the speculation would suggest that Melissa had been kidnapped and murdered elsewhere. Other commenters would hint that she’d been involved.

“Remember how your mom would always warn you not to read tabloid stories about your father because journalists like to create drama to sell newspapers? She—”

“The New York Times isn’t Star magazine.”

“No. But even reputable papers can make mistakes or have poorly informed sources. This story is developing. You can’t assume everything reported is true and that people know what they’re talking about. It’d be better to wait until—”

“My dad is dead, my mom is missing, and I’m cold.”

Though Ava didn’t raise her voice, her flat tone conveyed her fury. Anger was the third stage of grief. Imani figured Ava would circle back through sadness and disbelief once she had a chance to sit. Loss wasn’t a one-way subway tunnel. The journey through it lacked the order of emotional platforms that could be stopped at or passed by while advancing to acceptance.