Chapter 7: What Color

Ike turned the TV off.

He didn't throw the remote. He set it down very gently.

"Grieving," he said.

"And confused."

"You want me to go over there?"

"And do what?"

He thought about it honestly.

"Stand near him," he said. "For a while."

I laughed so hard my rib caught and I had to hold it.

By Wednesday, Kerri had found her voice.

Her posts went up at eight every morning, with soft pictures of coffee cups and sunrises over the James.

The first one was about forgiveness.

The second one was about how hard it is to be a young woman in law when an older woman decides you're a threat.

The third one had a photo of the bond office.

Somebody had taken it from across the street. The neon sign. The barred front window.

Six weeks after that night, she's living above a bail bondsman. I'm not judging. I just think we should ask who's really unstable here.

It had four thousand likes by lunch.

Nettie read it out loud at the card table in a terrible newscaster voice.

"Who's really unstable here," she said. "Daddy, are we unstable?"

"I've been told I'm very stable."

"By who?"

"The bank."

Nettie studied the photo.

"She took this picture wrong. The B is out on the sign and she didn't even wait for it to flicker back."

Darla came over at four with the police report and a box of doughnuts.

She spread the report on Ike's desk and tapped it with one red fingernail.

"Read me what you were wearing."

I read it.

Victim was in sleepwear and athletic shoes.

"That's it?"

"That's it. The nurse's notes say 'clothing bagged.' Brantley's submission says 'nightclothes,' three times. Nobody wrote a color."

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