“Is focusing on Jamal a personal vendetta on behalf of your son, or do you have any evidence?”

“Excuse me?” Sheriff Brighton’s jaw goes tight.

“You bring the entire force to our home looking for Jamal, holding a warrant. What evidence do you have on Jamal?”

“Tracy.” Mama pulls me closer.

“This is abuse of power,” I say. “You should know this won’t stand in a courtroom, especially the way you barged into the house. When we hear Jamal’s side of things, you’re going to regret—”

“What exactly are you charging my son with?” Mama asks.

“Murder.”

I gasp and Mama rocks back. We heard about Angela from Beverly, knew it was leading up to this, but hearing it from the sheriff makes it more real.

“We have a witness at the crime scene. A 911 call placing him near the victim, and your son’s letterman jacket covering her body. The sooner he comes in, the better chance he has of getting the DA to give him life rather than a death sentence.”

My fingers touch my parted lips. He knows what that threat means to our family.

“Have you heard different from Jamal?” Sheriff Brighton asks. “Seen him at all since the murder?”

I gulp hard because I don’t have an answer about the blood on Jamal. I can’t deny he was jumpy last night.

“Jamal could be injured,” I say. “Have you thought for one second that maybe his life is also in danger? Someone could be after my brother.”

“The facts aren’t adding up that way.”

“Next time you come barging into my home, you better expect our lawyer will be ready to make charges of excessive force,” Mama says as she shifts her purse around. She doesn’t wait for him to respond; instead, she stands and steadily walks out the front door.

Outside, Chris’s red truck drives past with him in the passenger seat; he must trust Mr. USA to drive his car. Hitched to the back of the truck is an American flag that flies in the wind. Something tells me that to him the Stars and Stripes represents the good old days when the American Dream was narrowly defined. Our nightmare.

“I’m sorry, Mama.” I touch her shoulder. “We’re going to find Jamal.”

Mama wraps her arms around me, shaking.

“What should we do about Jamal?” I ask.

“I’m worried we haven’t heard from him yet. I wish—”

Mama doesn’t finish her thought, but I know what she’s thinking. I wish Daddy was home. Having his son be a suspect in the murder of a young white girl isn’t going to help his appeal. I gotta see Daddy. Gotta find Jamal. Before I lose them both. Before I lose Mama.

I know Jamal would be mad, but Mama can’t be engulfed in worry over his disappearance. She needs to know he chose to leave.