“What about the rest of the boxes?” I point to the pile in the corner.

“I don’t know,” Dean says.

I begin searching the rest of the boxes. Sorting through papers, unearthing a few more photos that I pull out and stack together. We comb through the boxes for an hour, silence taking over the room.

I skim through a notebook. At first it looks like nothing in particular, but then I notice initials, names, almost like attendance records.

“I think this is a membership list,” I say. “Meeting records of who was there? Like it’s a damn community organization or something.”

“What?” Dean takes the notebook. “All the writing is the same.”

Dean’s hands rattle. I place mine over his, so they stay steady. Both of our hands are cold.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I recognize the handwriting.”

“Tell me it’s not your dad’s.” A sinking feeling weighs me down. I hope it’s not true.

“No,” Dean says. “The squiggly-lined cursive and the loops on the t’s that aren’t supposed to be there—they’re like my grandfather’s writing on birthday cards. I—Tracy, how could the person I loved be filled with so much hate?”

I don’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t want to hurt Dean. But if he recognizes the handwriting, and all this came from his grandfather’s house after he passed, he was definitely some kind of leader in the Klan. My mind is spinning. There’s Klan in my community. People I know could be members. Raised to think these things. They burned a cross at my house. They went after my brother.

My dad.

“We’ve got to take a closer look at this stuff,” I say.

“But what about my parents? My dad will notice.” He doesn’t say “mom.”

“We can take a few things and put everything back like it was. We’ll replace it in a few days.”

Dean holds on to the box. I can see why he wouldn’t want things to be exposed about his family. The photo of the man being hanged. I can’t stop thinking about that man’s family. Their pain.

I feel lied to. Crowning Heights had its own set of rules—a life could easily be taken if you’re the wrong color. No wonder they were so quick to blame Daddy.

“We have to use this,” I say. “Learn more if it’ll help my family.”

“You should do it. I don’t want to stop you, but I don’t think I can face anyone in my family. They were involved in…” He points back to the box with the photo, then where the white robe is shoved back in a box. “All of that.”

“Don’t you want to find out, though? Maybe your grandpa changed.” I’ve been through hell over the years with my father’s sentence, and Dean so easily wants to give up. I shake my head.