As the Wicked Watch(45)

“Sure. No problem!” she said.

This wasn’t about getting an exclusive; this was for her safety.

“Thanks. You’ve both been great. I’m so sorry about the loss of your friend. You guys be careful out here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Maleek. “You, too.”

The question burned on my brain. Who gave Masey rides home from school? Shawn mentioned a cousin. It could’ve been a member of Masey’s extended family: one of her model-esque, basketball-player-looking relatives; her aunt Cynthia; or this cousin Yvonne, whom I have yet to meet. Maybe even Pamela herself.

I would have to unpack this revelation later. A group of about a half-dozen or so White women grabbed my attention in this predominantly Black and brown assembly.

“Hey, George.” I pointed toward them. “Let’s go talk to those ladies. Follow me.”

The crowd had grown dense, and I had to push my way through the tightly packed bodies like a defensive lineman. “Pardon me . . . excuse me . . . oops, sorry, excuse me . . . can I get past you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a news camera and a reporter headed in my same direction, and I picked up the pace, determined to get to the women first.

As I drew closer, I noticed the group of women were all wearing matching pink Tshirts with the words women united against violence inscribed on the front, but they must not have noticed me while I was rushing up on them. “Hi, ladies!” I said.

One of the women jumped. She gave me a look, rolled her eyes, and rested her right hand on her chest, breathing a sigh of relief. I’d startled the poor woman, who was clearly a fish out of water in this neighborhood after dark. I scanned the area and didn’t see the reporter from the competing station. She must have conceded defeat and gone in another direction.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Jordan Manning with Channel 8. Can I get a quick interview?”

They all gestured toward a short nondescript woman standing a few feet away, wearing a baseball cap over her medium-length brown hair. “You’ll want to talk to April,” she said.

Of the women standing there, she seemed the least likely to be the leader of the group. She appeared to be surveying the scene herself, craning her neck to see over and around the crowd, which appeared to have grown by at least a third in the last five minutes. At around five-four, she had a hard time seeing over other people’s heads.

“April!” one of them yelled to get her attention. “This reporter would like to speak with you.”

April turned toward me with a bright, welcoming smile. “Oh, hello there. I’m April Murphy. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jordan Manning. Channel 8,” I said.

“Oh yes, of course! It’s so nice to meet you. I watch you all the time. You’re even prettier in person,” she said.

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” I said.

“April, do you mind if I ask you a few questions on-camera?”

She shrugged her shoulders and nodded in the affirmative. “Sure. That’s fine.”

“Okay, great,” I said.

We stepped away into a less crowded area to give George enough room to frame the shot.

“Boy, it’s getting chilly out here, isn’t it?” April said. “I hope they start soon. We have a good hour’s drive back.”

“Yes, it sure is,” I said as I secured my earpiece and the battery pack to my belt. “Where are you based? Are you expecting some others to join you? You appeared to be looking for someone when I walked up.”

“We’re from the Naperville/Aurora area. And no, this is our group for this event. I just like to keep my eyes peeled,” she said. “You can learn a lot just by observing.”

“April, can you say your first and last name and spell your last name, if you don’t mind?” I asked.

“April like the month and the common spelling of Murphy. M-U-R-P-H-Y.”

“Okay. Thank you. And what’s your title with the group?”

“I’m the founder and president,” she said.

The jarring light atop the camera illuminated our figures. There was something unreal about the air. The atmosphere metamorphized with the dusk and painted the area around us in black, white, and gray tones.

I’m here with April Murphy, founder and president of Women United Against Violence. She and several members of her group came all the way from Aurora to take part in tonight’s vigil. April, what compelled your group to come?

“We’re just sick, all of us, about what happened to this child,” she said, her cohort nodding in agreement beside her. “We’re here to stand with her community and show support for her family. As a survivor, I empathize.”

“April, explain what you mean by ‘as a survivor,’” I said.

“My mother was murdered during my senior year in high school. It’s been twenty years, but it’s something you don’t get over.”

“What does your group do?” I asked.

“We help victims’ families in any way we can—financially, if necessary. In regard to this case, though, I am deeply concerned. I’ve been watching the news coverage . . . or should I say, what little coverage I could find. There have been more stories about the shortage of salt to put down on the roads this winter than about this missing child. This story should have been everywhere,” she said.