“Stay out here with Dean.”

“I thought I was going with you,” I say.

Mama knows I can help. I might not have been able to help when Daddy was arrested, but I’ve made up for it in working with the lawyers and running Know Your Rights campaigns in the community. I pull out my rights crib sheet from my back pocket.

Mama studies me, then closes her eyes in agreement. As soon as Mama turns toward the station, her face goes stern, like she’s going to put a hurting on anyone who gives her the runaround.

I show a grateful smile as Dean waits by the stairs. I know he’d be out here all day if he needed to, and that helps take away the feeling we’re alone in this.

Following Mama, I clutch my phone before sending another text to Jamal that’ll probably go unanswered. I look back one more time at Dean, then suck in a breath to prepare myself.

This time has to be different. We trusted that the truth would come out in the Davidson murder investigation, but we should’ve known. Daddy was the number one suspect, and nothing else mattered. I won’t forget that. All we’ve been through with Daddy has to have been preparation for fighting for Jamal.

Goose bumps pucker my skin from the cold air in the police station compared with the heat outside. There’s a long hallway to the back, where three offices stand to the right of a small holding cell. A few deputies from last night shuffle back and forth with paperwork. I search for someone who’ll listen. Who’ll want to help. The room is empty of that care. They know who we are and have already made a judgment.

“Sheriff Brighton, please,” Mama says to the desk officer. “You can tell him it’s Mrs. Lillian Beaumont.”

Mama doesn’t wait for a response. She whips around and takes a seat at the bench.

“Let’s do this,” I say under my breath.

“If Jamal don’t come home, we’re going to need to get word to your dad.”

I gulp hard. I know this truth. Daddy’s already been pulling away, pushing me to get prepared for when he’s gone.

Mama closes her eyes and lays her hand over her purse. They must not realize Mama can wait them out all day.

I look past the officer, over at the deputies stopping to talk to each other. Standing with them is Chris Brighton, wearing his maroon Texas A&M hat. My heart squeezes; Chris just lost his girlfriend.

The sheriff rests his hand on Chris’s shoulder and says, “It’s gonna be all right, son.”