“I talked to Chris. He blames Jamal for her death, but he admitted to me that Jamal arrived after Chris found her body. It didn’t sound like he actually thinks Jamal did it. Just that it was his fault that caused it to happen, for whatever reasons.”

Beverly nods. “The window for Angela’s murder is tight between the calls and when Chris found her. That’s why this phone might help. We also need to hear from Jamal.”

“But Chris was out there with her body. Couldn’t Jamal say he caught Chris in the act—killing her?”

“If Jamal hadn’t run, and if he’d called the police right then and there, he’d be better off. But he ran. Now he looks guilty.”

I take stock of the police station. Everything probably happened so fast, and it’s too late for Jamal to backtrack and share his statement. No one’s going to believe him.

“What do you know about the Pike?” I ask. “Angela took photos on a couple of Tuesday nights. Can’t be a coincidence…Angela…was murdered on a Tuesday?”

“The Pike is generally empty, known for parties, and that’s it. Don’t know about Tuesdays. I don’t usually have that route. I can ask around.”

“Good,” I say. “Let me know.”

“Tracy.” Beverly puts both hands on the edge of my window. “I’ll find out more. You’re going to have to trust me, though. Police investigations are—”

“Police business, I know.” I search her eyes. “Beverly, if you find out something you don’t like, be careful who you trust.”

Beverly takes a step back, glancing all around before taking the phone, tucking it into her pocket, and entering the police station.

I want to trust her, too, but I don’t know if I do enough to put my brother’s life at risk.

I also don’t think I have a choice.

PLUS-ONE

Some would call this party crashing, but technically I’m Dean’s plus-one. The senior graduation party is the most exclusive party of the year, held at the biggest house. Which means usually most of the white kids go, and everyone else hitches rides with their white friends so the cops aren’t called by neighbors—neighbors who are perfectly fine with ragers, but not a car full of Black and brown kids. It would’ve been at Angela’s this year, but now it’s at Mandy Peters’s.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Dean asks.

“What?” I step outside, readjust my dark green off-the-shoulder minidress. “It’s just a party.”

“Neither of us is graduating.”

“You went last year.” I fumble through my bag to apply more lipstick. Then stretch out my natural hair that’s now all blown out.

“I crashed with the track team last year,” Dean says.

“Track team’s crashing again, so no big deal.”