I run my fingers across the hash marks on her doorway that track her height. When I’ve capped the top of her most recent smudge, I glance out the window.

The road that leads to our house is a quarter mile long, but you can see the unmarked police car parked down by our mailboxes. Beverly no longer there.

The image of blood swirling down the drain comes back to me. Worry fills me that Jamal is hurt, or worse: he did something horrific on accident and he’s too scared to ask for help.

The cops left last night with Jamal’s toothbrush and clippers, but no towel. I have to confirm if it was blood or if my mind was messing with me so late into the night. I search the bathroom for the towel Jamal used. The rack is empty. Then I remember he balled it up before going to bed.

I rummage through every crevice and corner of his room.

“What’s with you?” Mama stops at Jamal’s door.

“I was looking for the bathroom hand towel. You seen it?” My gut churns with dread.

Mama pushes her lips out like it means nothing to her, but then she looks down, which makes it harder to study her for the truth. I wait until Mama goes back downstairs, and then I search Jamal’s nightstand.

All he’s got in here are college acceptance letters, a Bible, Chapstick, and a handful of pencils. I flip through a small notebook filled with scribbles of reminders to himself, like school application dates and deadlines. A date: July 14, with Angela’s name, circled. I pause at the writing near her name, then make my way to his window. He rarely lets me in his room, but sometimes when we’re both up on a sleepless night, I get the chance to join him when he climbs out on the roof. I’ve always been a captive audience when he allows me into the world inside his head. We’d talk for hours.

I want to be closer to Jamal, so I push up his window to go out on the roof. It creaks like when Jamal left last night. I extend my leg out, pull my body through, and settle on the roof. Sit in Jamal’s spot. I angle enough, though, so that the cops who are posted on the side of the road can’t see me.

In my head, I sort through what Jamal might be doing. He might not feel safe to come home, but Jamal wouldn’t just run. He’d keep watching out for us. Work on clearing his name. He should also know I’m the best one to help. If I hear from him, I’ll need to persuade him to tell me what happened. For Daddy, for Mama. For me.