This Is My America(58)

“Mrs. Evans might change her mind if she got to know Steve. Anyway, isn’t this something you normally would do? It seems…kinda negligent.”

Mama has always used food to bring people together. Our hardest days in courts were accompanied by other memories. Guests joining us for family dinners. Until it got too much. Until it was clear Daddy wasn’t coming home.

“Steve does need a break,” Mama says. “He shouldn’t be spending those late nights in that office by himself. When the day is done, tell him he’s coming here for dinner. I’ll leave you the grocery list.”

“What about the Evanses?”

“I’ll talk to them when I get into work.” Mama cranks her neck my way.

I smirk at Mama, who only needed a push. Then send another text to Jamal. He’s been silent since Quincy told him about me crashing the party.



* * *





I step out of the car to get to Elm’s Grocery store. When I run across the street, I almost don’t see Mr. Herron, Angela’s dad, standing in front of me. Out of habit, I attempt a wave, but stop midway because he’s visibly shaken seeing me. As much as I want to comfort him, my presence won’t give him peace.

I want to say I’m sorry. Scream out Jamal’s innocence. That I wish Angela was still here. None of that happens. I’m frozen.

“How can you act like everything’s fine?” Mr. Herron’s jaw is tense.

“I—I—I’m sorry. We have someone who can help find out what happened to Angela.” I point down the street to the loft above Evans Antiques. I want to make it true, even though I know my focus has been on Jamal, and freeing Daddy.

He throws his hand out. “Bring my daughter back, if you want to help. Can you bring her back?”

My breath catches. Stunned. He knows that’s impossible.

“You can’t.” His eyes go wet. “Stay away. I hope they find Jamal and he rots in prison like he left my baby girl outside to do.”

I want to be outraged at his behavior, but I can’t. It’s shame. Pure shame running through my body, even though Jamal didn’t do nothing.

I escape to Elm’s Grocery, my cheeks red as I pass customers who witnessed the interaction outside. I hurry through the store, picking from Mama’s grocery list. I go to check out, and the grocer doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up at me. They all know who I am. All itching for me to leave.



When he’s done, he rings me up. “That’ll be forty dollars and twenty-seven cents.”

He’s rushing me so fast he almost forgets to take my cash. I wave two twenties in front of me. He halfway apologizes but doesn’t meet my eyes while I fish around for the change.

“That’s okay. Forty is good.”

I ignore him. I’m not gonna have him say I shorted him. As I turn to exit, I bump into another customer.

“Sorry,” I say.

Without looking up, I scoot around to pass the guy.

He steps between me and the exit.

I glance up to give him a glare. My face drops when he stares at me with cold eyes. I almost let it slip out that I know him—the guy from Liberty Heritage for a New America. I now realize he was the same guy with Chris at the police station. He looks like a slightly younger version of Sheriff Brighton. My throat constricts when I know for sure he recognizes me, too. That’s why he stopped me.

“Excuse me,” I force out, shaking as I move left, then right, to get past him.

He blocks me again. Then finally he lets me pass, his hateful expression unchanged.



Relief sets in when he goes the other way. My steps are tentative. I’m so light-headed from the blood rushing through my body.

I cross the street and then call Officer Clyde, tell him about being harassed by the same guy from the break-in. I hear him write down a few things, and then he hangs up. Immediately, I text Beverly. I can’t take the chance Officer Clyde will let this pass because Sheriff Brighton might have a closer connection to it all.

I wait to see if the guy will leave, but he walks down the street toward another office building. Without hesitation, I sneak behind the white SUV to get a better look. Inside, sitting on the back seat, are boxes from the copy store. An image of the original copy is taped on top of the box, but it’s too hard to see unless I go on the street side. I strain to search the other half of the car, trying not to look suspicious. When I can’t take the curiosity anymore, I go around. My heart beats fast for fear of getting caught, or worse…facing him again.

In broad daylight, on the street side, I peek in the white SUV’s window. Taped to the top of the box is a sign, a drawing of a white, straight couple holding a baby. The words at the top: Don’t let white guilt control you. Join together and honor our heritage.

My heart is racing. I read again, searching for the name of the organization. Nothing states Liberty Heritage for America, though. The posters are clearly recruitment flyers. The flyer doesn’t state a meeting location, but my guess is Tuesdays at the Pike is one of them. This could be Angela’s exposé.



I move closer to the driver’s side, but out of the corner of my eye I spot the man leaving the office, so I cross traffic. He doesn’t see me but turns toward his parked car. We’ll be forced to walk by each other. I duck into a store and hold my breath until he walks past.