I’m hoping he says no. That he’s never seen it before, because then I could try and believe that Dean’s dad wasn’t involved.

“I remember my mom having boxes of my grandpa’s stuff delivered after he passed away. She wanted his things, so my dad helped gather them for her.”

Dean keeps a slight distance, like he wants to touch me but can’t.

“Does this mean my mom’s involved with the Klan? My dad?” Dean puts his hands to his head. “What does that make me, Tracy? Klan legacy?”

I think about Daddy, how the town accused him so effortlessly. My anger grows. I’m not sure I can contain it.

“They couldn’t be involved,” Dean continues. “I’ve never heard my dad say one racist thing in my life. Hell, he voted for Obama. Klan wouldn’t do that, would they?”

“I don’t think he’s Klan.” I sigh. Mr. Evans has always been good to us. I wouldn’t think someone active in the Klan would have dinner over at our house, much less hire my mama.

“But my grandpa was, wasn’t he?” Dean pauses. “And my mom…it’s no secret, her thoughts. She’s said things, things about our worlds being too far apart. But nothing that would lead me to something this…heinous. She can’t think like they do, can she?”

There’s nothing else to explain the robe and the photos of his grandpa. His mom was certainly raised around it.

“Why do you think your dad was pulling these out?” I try to keep my voice flat, even though I can feel a scream building. I have to stay calm.

“What happened at your house could’ve triggered him. Like he wanted to get rid of it? Or he thinks he can find out who did it by going through the boxes?” Dean’s voice sounds hopeful, but it teeters and cracks, because he’s not convinced. Neither am I.

“He said he’d get Steve information. He could’ve already done that. If he has, that’s good, right?”

I think about something Mr. Evans said to Officer Clyde. How this shouldn’t be happening in our town. That’s what he was thinking. That it died out with the previous generation. I’m sure the town doesn’t want to raise skeletons of the past. Even though it’s been lingering at the Pike—infecting the next generation.

“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.