Promptly at six, the doorbell rings. I loosen my two-twist strands before opening the door. Mama insisted I wear a summer dress. Corinne, too, although we couldn’t stop her from wearing her favorite cowboy boots. I force a smile at the door so any evidence that I was terrified earlier disappears. But inside I’m spinning, each move I made today still bouncing in me like a pinball looking for a safe place to land.

Three smiling faces greet me: Steve, Dean, and Mr. Evans. Followed by a sullen Mrs. Evans. Dean towers over them all, wearing my favorite blue-checkered shirt, the one I got him for his birthday. Mr. Evans lets them enter first, his arm around Mrs. Evans. More pushing her in than ushering.

“Welcome,” Mama calls out from the stairs, dressed nicely, like she hasn’t been on her feet, cooking. She greets everyone with smiles but gives Mrs. Evans an extra-long hug.

“All right, all right. I told you I was coming, Lillian.” Mrs. Evans laughs. “I’m not going anywhere, so you can stop hugging me.”

Mama has that way about her. She claims her cooking is her visible weapon—praying’s the invisible one.

I immediately glance over at Dean, who gives me a half-cocked fake smile that lets me know it was an ordeal getting here.

“Who is this young lady?” Dean says over my shoulder. Corinne’s playing shy at the bottom of the stairs.

“It’s me, silly.” Corinne gives a bashful laugh.

“You clean up well, little sis.” Dean picks her up for a hug.

At the table, Mama leads us in grace. All heads bowed and thankful at a break from everything causing pain. Mama’s cooked a traditional New Orleans meal. In the middle of the table is a mound of boiled crawfish, with corn and potatoes. She overdid the crawfish because it’s the last of the season. Then red beans and rice, corn muffins, and okra. Plates pass around, a miracle the way it washes away fear from earlier.

Steve’s laughing, talking, shoving food into his mouth and sucking down crawfish. As dinner goes on, though, you can tell he’s fading away.

“I should’ve had you over sooner. Not like me at all.” Mama smiles, but it’s a heavy one. Weighted. Painful. Steve’s sitting in Jamal’s seat after all.

“Understandable. I went right to work on the case. Barely had time for anything else. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, for the use of the office space,” Steve says. “I can do some real work there.”

“What exactly are you doing?” Mrs. Evans dabs her napkin at her mouth before placing it on the table.

“Judy—” Mr. Evans places his hand over hers.

“I’d like to know. Because all I see is trouble. We’ve never had break-ins before.”

“That’s not Steve’s fault,” Mr. Evans says. “We talked about this.”