This Is My America(36)

At the edge of the dock, I shiver at the thought that this is where Angela’s body was found. I stay well behind the police tape. On the dock I can see stains of what’s now dark-colored spots and one puddle. Must be from Angela. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shouldn’t be here.



“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to Angela, knowing she’s beyond hearing me, but needing to say it anyway.

It’s a relief to turn away and study the parking lot. It would’ve been pitch-black. I struggle to find a reason that would draw her out to the dock alone. She must have been meeting someone. I just hope that it wasn’t Jamal and that there’s an explanation to his letterman jacket being left behind.

I’m struck by the police tape only marking around and near the dock, but nowhere past the grass or up toward the seafood packing building.

A few steps farther, hidden past the grass, is a footpath. There’s something…off about it. I move closer and realize the long grass is splattered with red marks, but no police tape. The murder happened less than a week ago.

The blood is easy to miss unless you step deep into the brush. If the police were certain Jamal killed Angela on the dock, then perhaps they got sloppy and didn’t search far enough? I take a few photos with my cell, then skirt around the area to avoid touching anything.

Squatting low, I notice two grooves, leading to more scuff marks by the building. Like someone was dragged. Fought and couldn’t get away. I blink quickly to take away the image of Angela. How scared she must have been, trying to fight for her life.

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!



I wait for Jamal to share more, but when he says, I’m out! he usually means it. I delete the texts. As much as I want to take Jamal’s warning, I also want him home. Free.

Quincy said Jamal wouldn’t run too far from home. Maybe he’s near here, but that feels too dangerous.

I gulp down my fear of involving the police and text Beverly, asking if the crime scene at the Pike is cleared. Pretending I haven’t already searched it.

That’s when I hear voices in the distance.





DON’T FREEZE

Alarm bells sound in my head. My stomach drops. I turn and see the tall grass flicking back and forth. The same motion the grass made when I waded through and found the crime scene path to the building. Someone’s coming.

There’s more rustling, getting closer. I realize I’m caught totally out in the open. The panic rumbling inside me climbs up my throat while I hold back a scream.

The warehouse is dim, except where the sun shines through the layers of dust on windows. I step back, scanning the space for a place to hide. There’s a small opening between the wall and the warehouse conveyer belt.

I push through the narrow gap.