Quincy’s body shakes next to mine. I touch his arm and he’s ice-cold. I see him reliving the trauma he went through as a child. I clutch his hand, but it’s like I’m not here.

“He’s going to need to make a decision,” Officer Clyde says. “Sheriff’s not going to let him get away again.”

“We have to go. The sooner we can get you in the car, Jamal, the better,” Beverly says.

Steve goes to Jamal. “Come on, trust me, let’s go together. I’m your legal representation getting out of here.”

Jamal nods, but his eyes are wide, his mouth a thin line. He’s scared to death. Just like me.

Sheriff Brighton approaches the house, his eyes steady on Jamal when he sees him. My stomach sinks because I don’t know what this means for Jamal. Guilt that I made Jamal come home to talk to Steve takes over.

“We got things under control, Sheriff,” Beverly says.

“Is that true?” Sheriff Brighton looks to Officer Clyde.

“We’ll be out shortly,” Officer Clyde says.

Steve whispers to Beverly.

“He’d like his interview to happen here,” Beverly says.

I look to Steve and hope this is possible.

“We don’t need to manage it that way.” Officer Clyde intercedes. “I’ll bring him in.”

“We need to get him on the record right away,” Beverly says.

“That’s what the station is for,” Sheriff Brighton says. “We’re following protocol on this. We can’t allow your family connection to rule how we do this.”

“Your son was at the scene of the crime,” Beverly says. “And there are claims your brother’s gun was the one we found. A gun that Angela was allegedly returning to your son that may have been used in the death of that girl at the march two months back.”

My chest swells at Beverly holding her ground. Sheriff Brighton takes a step back, his face contorted, puzzled. This is new information to him.

“Let’s do this right on both accounts so we won’t have issues charging,” Officer Clyde intervenes.

“I’ll secure the perimeter. We do this by the book.” Sheriff Brighton nods and folds his arms across his chest, eventually turning toward the police cars.

The officers spread around the house. No option for Jamal to run away now.

A white SUV pulls up to the field. The lighting is poor, but I can tell this is no cop car. My stomach twists as I wait to see who it is. The car slows when it reaches our driveway and stops behind the police cars. A man gets out; the flashing blue and red lights bounce off his pale skin.

Richard Brighton.