“I’ve read enough of your letters to know you’re a relentless advocate. That’s why I can’t in good faith give you a date. This will still be a fight, although we have a lot going for us already.”

I rub my hands over my mouth in frustration.

“Gun ballistics have changed over time,” Mr. Jones says. “It’s not exactly a science anymore. I’ve seen things fall apart with this. We don’t know if the gun is tied to the Davidson murders, but we do know there’s a connection to an affiliated member of a hate group and the death of two young women. We’ll need to press hard on the evidence and get more witnesses who might be willing to come forward, or get an admission. Mrs. Evans’s statement will be key, but I want more.”

Dom returns, taking down names of people to interview and asking how we came to certain conclusions. I wait for more questions from Mr. Jones, but he’s done. He jumps on his phone, emailing and texting.

I look up when I hear a familiar voice.

Quincy.

My heart melts. I move to the door, open it, and flash a wide smile. Behind him is Beverly. An overwhelming joy fills me when I see her. She’s moving slow, her shoulder bandaged and her arm in a brace. She winces with each step. There’s a crowd of her fellow officers around, but her focus is on us.

Beverly took a bullet for my brother, risked her life when another officer was quick to take a shot when Richard yelled, “Gun!” She protects and serves.

We’d given Beverly a hard time about trusting the law, but we were mistaken: she is what the law was always supposed to be.

I hesitate, then reach out to hold Quincy. I’m worried that somehow if I look him in the eye, he’ll be able to see my guilt about his sister being shot. He doesn’t give me another second to question. He flings his arms around me and lifts me up. I let go of my fear and hold him tight. Quincy puts me down. I reach for Beverly but stop because she looks too fragile.

“You should be resting,” I say.

“Had to see it through, make sure Jamal gets released.” She turns to Mr. Jones. “And shake this man’s hand.”

Mr. Jones opts for a fist bump, then Beverly smiles at Steve. He shakes her hand—the one not in a sling—and I notice how their touch lingers. I look to Quincy to see if he notices. He shakes his head at me, then chuckles.

“I’m assuming you haven’t been watching the news?” Quincy asks.

I shake my head.

“It’s all over,” he says. “Turn on the television.”