How It Went Down: Chapters 15–17

I put on a semi-neutral, semi-angry expression as I'm introduced to the country by the grinning host of yet another eponymous news hour.

"The police accepted Franklin's narrative,” I explain. "By what logic do you accept the shooter's narrative without investigation, especially when there are so many contradictory reports? Why can they take Jack Franklin's word, but not the word of anyone else present?"

The host consults his notes. "A spokesman for Franklin says he's keeping a low profile due to press harassment and unfounded accusations."

The host thanks me for coming, and as the lights dim, I wonder, yet again, what good all these sound bites actually do. They'll be quoted, parsed, fact-checked, eviscerated by those who disagree, and then forgotten in the wake of new blurbs that come out tomorrow.

The host thanks me for coming, and as the lights dim, I wonder, yet again, what good all these sound bites actually do. They'll be quoted, parsed, fact-checked, eviscerated by those who disagree, and then forgotten in the wake of new blurbs that come out tomorrow.

I lie on the black rubber cot and close my eyes, trying to stave off the nausea.

Noodle calls, and I let it go to voice mail. Time and time again. I hold the phone in my hand as it vibrates relentlessly.

Eventually I set it aside on the edge of my bed and lie there contemplating it.

It's natural, in the end, to get nostalgic about the beginning. Isn't it?

"You're looking good." In that low, sexy drawl guys use when they're flirting.

"Ma'am, we have a warrant to search the premises for evidence of drugs or other illegal activity on the part of Tariq Johnson."

Two of them pen us in the corner of the kitchen. Thrust thick sheaves of paper in my face.

Cop looks around the apartment. Under a stranger's eye, I know it won't look so good. Walls in need of paint. Chipped tile. Linoleum all buckled and faded. A crack in the window, covered over with tape.

"Probably some kind of evidence they could use to vilify Tariq," Sloan says.

"They're saying he oathed in," I say. "I thought you guys were sticking it together on the outside."
"I thought so, too," Ty says, so quiet the orange phone garbles his voice.

I glare at him, glad for once to show my defiance. He has to know—I can't be held down by his rules, his world.

"Let's find them," he says. His voice sounds gruff.

It's not quite sundown, but there's clearly going to be a big turnout.

Crowds gather slowly through the late afternoon, clad in hoodies, carrying posters and hand-painted signs.

I thought that to face this thing would help purge it, but each moment only pushes Tariq deeper into me.

The flit of his hand on my skin or the taste of his breath in the air—it must have been his last breath that I tasted, I grow more and more certain—and it's a part of my every breath, and maybe that's how it'll always be.

I've been stuck for a while in a place without tears. Not anymore. The swelling music, the soft hoodie, the linked arms bolstering me. It's all too much.

The rest of the people flow past, indifferent to everything but Tariq.

This march is much too morbid, I realize, everyone clad in Tariq's death shroud.

Noodle laughs, high-pitched and dissonant with the eerie music from the march.

Maybe Noodle's high will dampen the memory of how enraged and hurt he is, and maybe Brick won't press the issue in the light of day...but these are just things I'm telling myself.

I should be ecstatic, but the headlines still pain me.

Tyrell's features flatten. Is it anguish? Shame?

To hear Noodle tell it, it's the same stoop he was sitting on when Tariq was shot. Synergy, he says. Things coming full circle.

Brick holds out the knife.
I imagine it slitting my throat. Severing my spine.

A small figure across the street catches my attention. My gaze flicks up, involuntary.

Pacing the aisles at the drugstore, I run into Kimberly. She looks like I do—tired. Subdued. Eyes a little red.

He harbored a fugitive.

He harbored a fugitive.

I dig with the trowel Tina brought. Her small hands grab fistfuls of the grassy turf, lining them up beside the hole.