The thought makes me sick, but I need to see that photo again. The one with Judy Evans as a little girl. I look at the online scan, blow it up on my screen, and cover the body of the man who was lynched, focusing instead on Mrs. Evans looking up at her dad, another girl, slightly older, with her hand on Mrs. Evans’s shoulder.

I go back to my search engine, this time looking for a murder in the weeks following the date of the photo. A shiver runs down my spine when I notice something about a missing Vietnamese shrimp packer. Curious, I click on it. The article says his family had been looking for him for weeks. The last day he was seen was the same day as the lynching photo.

“It can’t be,” I whisper.

“What is it?” Quincy comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder.

I compare the article’s photo with the lynching picture. The man’s white shirt peeks out underneath a work apron. A shrimp-hook design on the corner of the apron, white pants with stains. When I saw the white hoods and people gathered around the body by the cross, I’d assumed the man was Black. Now I see he could be the Vietnamese man, with brown skin darkened by long, hot days outside. The apron isn’t on him, but his clothing is almost exactly the same.

“You see this?” I point at the photo and the image online, then shut my eyes tight.

“Is that…? Can’t be…Is that the same guy?”

The missing man in the article must be the same as in the photo. I search his name, Minh Nguyen. The only thing that comes up is that he went missing, possibly ran away from his family to move to New Orleans or another location near the Gulf for better work conditions. No mention of him being found.

They got away with murder. I count sixteen people who witnessed his death and never said a word.

People who can keep a secret like this are capable of anything.

I go over the details with Quincy. He keeps a calm face, but he’s tapping his foot hard.

“You should stop looking into all this. Give this to Steve Jones! Stay out of it.” The crease in his brow is getting tighter.

I know he’s trying to protect me, but I’m already smack-dab in the middle of it. Somehow, I feel like I’m still chasing my daddy’s secrets. Jamal has Daddy’s case on his back—like father, like son. I know I should focus on helping Jamal, not get lost in old skeletons that, if woken, could be ghosts I’d regret waking up.

KILL TWO BIRDS

WITH ONE STONE