I want to say it’s my imagination, but I can’t—not with the dried blood. I should call Sheriff Brighton so he can send a team over here again. I move to make the call, but lack of trust stops me.

I believed so much in Daddy being found innocent during the trial, but hope wasn’t enough to go against the story the police wanted the jury to believe.

Sheriff Brighton came to arrest Jamal. And Chris’s black eye continues to strike me as odd. The sheriff has more than one reason to want this murder solved quickly.

Either way, Chris knows something, and if the police won’t disclose this detail of Angela’s investigation, a surprise confrontation with Chris might be a solution. If he was caught off guard, he could blow up and reveal what happened. I can only imagine what he’d do if he knew about Jamal and Angela. This could be what he was arguing with her about on Tuesday morning before first period.

Quincy said Jamal got a text from Angela to meet him. If Jamal came searching for Angela and didn’t see her, he could’ve ventured past the parking lot, then saw her at the dock. Maybe he even saw who hurt Angela.

The crime started by the South Seafood Packing building. Then Angela was dragged and carried to the dock.

Her life ended at the dock.

But Angela was alive at some point and free enough to text Jamal, call for help. Something happened between her texts and calling 911, leaving Jamal’s name dangled as a suspect. But did she say his name as a warning? Or as a cry for help?

At ten, I take Jamal’s phone from the secret compartment of my small purse and send a text to trigger a response.

Quincy gave me the phone. What happened between you and Angela at the Pike?

Jamal will be pissed when he reads this, but he’ll answer. Beverly should be my next call. When I look up at the seafood packing building, I want to check it out first. I don’t trust the cops won’t bury evidence just to make this an open-and-shut case.

The warehouse door takes only a twist and hard shove to get open from what looks like a broken lock. When I enter, I expect to see a fully stocked building with equipment and supplies, but it’s stripped down, almost cleared out. Dust gathers over an old broken-down forklift and a production line the length of the building.

The phone beeps with a text from Jamal.

All you need to know is I didn’t do it.

Tell Quincy he sucks as a friend.

I gotta ditch my phone now.

Wait! I’ll only message you once a day. Promise.

I’m at the Pike. What happened?

Go home. It’s not safe out there. No more texting. Delete. I’m out!