Morning broke over Alcolu with a hush that felt heavier than the night before. Word moved through the dusty streets on whispers and worried glances, carried from porch to porch on the breath of neighbors who didn't dare say it too loud — Ikrist Raya's been locked up. They say he killed those girls. They say he confessed already.
At the mill yard, men paused mid-swing with their hammers, leaning in close to trade rumors under the grinding hiss of the saws. Women at wash lines lowered their voices, eyes darting to see who was listening. In the colored quarters, the fear was different thicker, closer to the skin. Mothers kept children inside, fathers came home early, doors were bolted with boards that wouldn't stop a rumor from slithering through the cracks.
Back at the Raya house, Anna Raya's hands shook as she folded Amie's dress and laid it in the wash basket. Her husband, Caleb Raya, stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the road as if willing Ikrist to come walking up the dusty path any second now.
"He didn't do it," Anna said for the tenth time that morning, voice raw from saying it out loud and under her breath like a chant. "He didn't do it, Caleb."
"I know," Caleb murmured. His eyes never left the road. "But knowin' ain't enough for folks like them."
Amie sat on the porch steps, her knees pulled tight to her chest. Her doll lay beside her, the maypop flower wilted now but still tucked in its yarn hair. She didn't understand all the hushed words — murder, trial, execution. But she knew one thing: Krist was gone and Mama's eyes were red every morning.
Down the lane, old Mr. McKinney shuffled by, hat in hand. He paused at their gate but didn't come up the steps. He tipped his hat to Anna but wouldn't quite meet her eyes.
"Mornin', Anna… Caleb." His voice cracked, dry as the dust. "You let me know if y'all need… well, anything."
Anna forced a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, Mr. McKinney."
He bobbed his head, turned, and hurried off, as if afraid the trouble might stick to him if he lingered too long.
Inside, Caleb paced the small kitchen. "I'm goin' back down to the station," he said.
Anna's head snapped up. "They won't let you see him. You know they won't."
"Then I'll stand out front 'til they drag me off," Caleb growled. "He's my boy. I ain't sittin' here like he's already gone."
Anna's hands clenched around Amie's dress until the cloth wrinkled under her knuckles. "Bring him home, Caleb. Please."
Caleb bent down, pressed his forehead to hers for a moment the only softness he had left to give right now. Then he stepped out the door, boots crunching on the dry path as he headed toward town.
At the jail, Sheriff Hammond sat in his office with his feet on the desk, hat tipped over his eyes. Deputy Croft leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes flicking to the cells down the hall every so often.
"You see his daddy out there again?" Croft asked.
Hammond lifted the brim of his hat, squinting at the harsh morning sun through the smeared window. "Let him stand there. Ain't changin' nothin'. Boy's gonna talk, or he's gonna swing. Simple as that."
Croft shifted his weight, his voice low. "You reckon he really did it, Sheriff?"
Hammond's eyes snapped to him — sharp, hard. "Don't matter what I reckon. We got dead white girls and a colored boy who talked to 'em last. Folks want a neck. If it ain't his, it'll be yours or mine when they come knockin'."
Croft looked away, jaw tightening. He thought of the biscuit he'd given Ikrist in the night. A crumb of mercy in a place that had none to spare.
In his cell, Ikrist sat cross-legged on the cot, the biscuit gone, his belly aching again. He scratched more drawings into the wall with a broken button he'd pried from his sleeve — a flower, a bird, a fence like the one Daddy patched last week.
The cell door clanged open. He flinched as Croft stepped in, a metal tray balanced in one hand — more grits, a tin cup of water.
"Eat," Croft said, setting it down.
Ikrist looked up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "Can I see my mama?" he asked, voice so small it made Croft's throat tighten.
"Not today." Croft shifted his feet, lowering his voice so the other deputies wouldn't hear. "You gotta stay strong, boy. Don't give 'em nothin' they ain't already got."
Ikrist blinked, confusion swimming in his tired eyes. "But I didn't do nothin'."
Croft didn't answer. He didn't have the words to tell a fourteen-year-old boy that sometimes nothin' wasn't enough to save you.
He turned away, the door clanging shut behind him.
Out in the yard, Caleb Raya stood across the street, hat in hand, boots planted firm in the dust. He stared at the jailhouse door as if his son's freedom might walk through it if he waited long enough.
Inside, Ikrist Raya pressed his palm to the wall again, feeling for warmth that wasn't there. The rumor storm raged outside — but in here, the air was still, and every breath tasted like iron and doubt.
He whispered a promise to himself that no one else could hear: I'll hold on. I'll hold on 'til Mama comes.
Outside the bars, the town's whispers turned sharper than any blade, and the truth felt smaller every time someone said his name.