11
Cleo stood inside her living room holding the phone to her ear.
Detective Marquez had stopped speaking.
“Did Lauren say Bart pushed him?” Cleo asked.
“I cannot discuss witness statements.”
“She did.”
“Miss Brooks—”
“You would not be calling me about Bart if nobody said it.”
Marquez exhaled.
“An investigation is underway.”
“Did you arrest him?”
“He was detained and released pending further inquiry.”
Cleo closed her eyes.
“Released.”
“Evidence requires review.”
“He pushed Jamal off a cliff.”
“That is one account.”
“How many accounts do you need?”
“Several witnesses later described a struggle.”
“Later.”
The detective said nothing.
Cleo understood.
“Somebody spoke to them.”
“I cannot speculate.”
“Bart’s father.”
“I cannot speculate.”
“Is the memory card damaged?”
Marquez paused too long.
Cleo’s hand tightened.
“Did you watch it?”
“Partial footage was recovered.”
“Does it show Bart?”
“It shows movement near the edge. The final moment is unclear.”
Cleo laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“We have Lauren’s initial statement.”
“Initial?”
“She is now represented by counsel.”
“And now?”
“I cannot discuss—”
“Now she is confused.”
The detective remained silent.
Cleo looked at the television.
The reporter called Jamal missing.
Not dead.
Not murdered.
Missing.
A word with room for hope and lies.
“Detective.”
“Yes?”
“Jamal called me.”
“When?”
“Before he died.”
The room became still.
“What did he say?”
“That Bart planned a fake cheating setup. That the phones were disabled. That Chase broke into his room.”
“Do you have a recording?”
Cleo looked at her phone.
The call had lasted seventeen minutes before disconnecting.
She had activated screen recording after Bart spoke through the door.
“I might.”
“Do not send it to anyone yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if evidence exists, we need the original device and verified copy.”
“Can I trust you?”
Marquez did not answer immediately.
“You can trust that I do not work for the Jefferson family.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“No,” the detective said. “It wasn’t.”
Cleo sat.
Denise placed a hand on her back.
“What happens now?” Cleo asked.
“Search teams continue through the night.”
“You know he is dead.”
“We have not recovered him.”
“But you know.”
Marquez’s voice softened.
“I believe the fall was unlikely survivable.”
Cleo stared at Jamal’s graduation photograph.
His gold stole.
His bright eyes.
The medal carrying another family’s name.
“Do not call it a fall.”
The detective paused.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. A fall makes gravity sound responsible.”
Cleo ended the call.
Her mother took the phone from her hand.
Cleo did not cry.
Not yet.
She stood and walked toward the television.
Jamal’s face filled the screen again.
The reporter described him as exceptional.
Valedictorian.
The smartest student in his class.
Star basketball player.
Student leader.
Future attorney.
Beloved son.
Every attribute remained.
None had saved him.
Cleo touched the screen.
“They are going to turn you into a lesson,” she whispered.
Denise stood behind her.
“Baby.”
“They will say you trusted the wrong people. They will say you should have stayed. They will make your murder about your mistake.”
Her voice broke.
“They are not going to say Bart hated you because you were everything he was told belonged to him.”
She lowered her hand.
“They are not going to say a room full of people saw his insecurity growing and kept calling it competition.”
The phone vibrated.
Isaiah Freeman.
Cleo answered.
Neither spoke at first.
Then Jamal’s father said, “They told us.”
Cleo closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“He promised he was coming home.”
“I know.”
“He promised you too?”
“Yes.”
Isaiah began crying.
The sound broke her.
Cleo sank to the floor.
Denise held her.
On the phone, Jamal’s father wept for his son.
Across town, Renee screamed his name into a house filled with trophies.
At Hampton Crest, administrators drafted memorial language before a body had been recovered.
At the Jefferson estate, Harrison told his son to say nothing.
On Saint Aurelia, searchlights moved across dark water.
And beneath every conversation lived one terrible truth:
Jamal Freeman had been the best of them.
The smartest.
The most disciplined.
The star athlete.
The leader.
The young man who did not want Bart’s girlfriend, wealth, name, or place.
His only mistake was believing excellence could convince insecurity that there was room for both of them.
Bartholomew Jefferson had not killed Jamal because Jamal was weak.
He killed him because Jamal’s strength made every advantage Bart possessed feel insufficient.
The world would soon say goodbye to Jamal.
Cleopatra Brooks was preparing to make sure it also said goodbye to every lie designed to bury him twice.