Before I head off to school on Monday, I stand close to Mama. She folds the newspaper, a late attempt to keep the headlines away. I’ve already seen them. Jamal on the cover, and Daddy on page 7. Galveston Times with a personal countdown: Fourteen days Jamal’s been on the run; 251 days until Daddy’s execution date. My chest aches.

Her worry lines compound with each day Jamal’s been gone. I take a seat at the kitchen table.

“I was thinking—”

“That statement never ends well.” Mama winks.

“We don’t really know Steve. Like he’s doing all this stuff for Daddy…and Mr. Evans gave him a great deal on the office space.”

“Save it. Where’s this going?”

“We should have them all over for dinner tonight.”

Over a meal, guards can come down. Steve can get insight into things Mama hasn’t told us yet, and Mrs. Evans might warm up more to the idea of Steve staying at the loft after the break-in. I also want to thank Steve; his words last night meant the world. And I don’t want him regretting taking our case.

“I’m sure this has nothing to do with Mr. Evans calling last night to say Mrs. Evans wants Steve to move out.”

Mama has no chill to hear me out. Having Steve move out would be a setback. He’s making progress—the break-in proved that.

“Mrs. Evans might change her mind if she got to know Steve. Anyway, isn’t this something you normally would do? It seems…kinda negligent.”

Mama has always used food to bring people together. Our hardest days in courts were accompanied by other memories. Guests joining us for family dinners. Until it got too much. Until it was clear Daddy wasn’t coming home.

“Steve does need a break,” Mama says. “He shouldn’t be spending those late nights in that office by himself. When the day is done, tell him he’s coming here for dinner. I’ll leave you the grocery list.”

“What about the Evanses?”

“I’ll talk to them when I get into work.” Mama cranks her neck my way.

I smirk at Mama, who only needed a push. Then send another text to Jamal. He’s been silent since Quincy told him about me crashing the party.

I step out of the car to get to Elm’s Grocery store. When I run across the street, I almost don’t see Mr. Herron, Angela’s dad, standing in front of me. Out of habit, I attempt a wave, but stop midway because he’s visibly shaken seeing me. As much as I want to comfort him, my presence won’t give him peace.

I want to say I’m sorry. Scream out Jamal’s innocence. That I wish Angela was still here. None of that happens. I’m frozen.

“How can you act like everything’s fine?” Mr. Herron’s jaw is tense.