Sheriff Brighton walks down the hallway, stopping at Jamal’s door. I stand, until I see he’s stopped by a man in a gray suit who isn’t dressed like the rest of the Galveston County police force. The sheriff insists on speaking with Jamal. He’s turned away. My body shakes with relief, hoping this is one step closer to clearing Jamal’s name.

Steve enters our conference room. Mama clutches her shirt and stands.

“Sit.” Steve gestures with his hand. “This is going to be a while.”

“Are they gonna let us talk to Jamal?” I ask.

“No.” Steve points to Jamal’s room. “Once they complete his paperwork, they’ll let me join him.”

I clear my throat. “What’s next?” I sip lukewarm water from a Styrofoam cup.

“Outside investigators have been called in. They’ve given approval for the ballistics on the gun found at the Pike to be done by an external unit.”

I exhale. My biggest fear was that Jamal’s fingerprints would be planted on the gun or they’d use it against him without any real evidence.

Corinne smiles, even though I know she doesn’t know what that means to us. She just knows we’re happy about it.

The plainclothes officer in gray, I realize, is from internal affairs. Not Galveston County police. I still don’t know who to trust. What kind of involvement Sheriff Brighton had. Did he know? Was he part of a cover-up? Or just couldn’t—didn’t want to—see the truth?

I rub my temples, then glance down at my phone for an update from Quincy. I want to be at the hospital for him and Beverly. As usual, I’m pulled in two places at once.

No news yet.

Mama brushes her forehead, the strain showing in her red eyes.

“You got any answers?” Corinne whispers to me.

“Jamal’s safe.” I squeeze Corinne’s arm, gentle. “That’s all that matters now.”

Corinne rests her head on Mama and fidgets with her shirt.

I take a long breath. Jamal’s under arrest, but Richard’s actions might have put the focus on his guilt. I only hope Beverly won’t have long-term injuries. By the time the ambulance pulled away, she was alert. Talking. Her shoulder was hit, but the other cops said she’d survive.

Out the window, I see Dean enter the police station with his parents. Mama glances at me, and I shrug. I didn’t contact him.

A few minutes later, Officer Clyde appears from the back of the station, his face ashen. He’s changed his uniform, the blood on his shirt now gone. I’m relieved. The front-desk officer points toward Mrs. Evans, and Officer Clyde meets her. They talk close, in hushed words. Dean and I catch glances, but he doesn’t move toward me.

Officer Clyde enters our conference room. His silver hair is disheveled, stress on his face.