2
The official autopsy confirmed what Lauren, Cameron, Peter, and Madison had said before lawyers reached them.
Jamal had died from injuries caused by the fall.
The fracture pattern showed he had struck the cliff face before entering the water. Defensive bruising marked both forearms. His right wrist had been compressed with enough force to support Lauren’s first claim that Bart stepped on him while Jamal held her.
The toxicology report found no alcohol.
No drugs.
No sedatives.
The first public lie died on paper.
It did not disappear.
People who needed Jamal to have been drinking simply questioned the test.
People who wanted him unstable claimed pressure could exist without substances.
People who could not accept deliberate murder called the fall a tragic fight between boys.
The language softened Bartholomew before he had earned softness.
News anchors described him as troubled.
His attorneys called him traumatized.
Hampton Crest asked the public to avoid judgment.
Jamal received no such patience.
Before the autopsy, commentators examined his athletic strength as evidence he could have overpowered Bart.
They discussed whether being valedictorian created hidden pressure.
One retired police officer suggested highly accomplished students sometimes experienced emotional collapse.
A daytime panel spent twelve minutes debating Lauren’s attraction to Jamal as if her desire had placed Bart’s hands on his chest.
Cleo watched five minutes before turning off the television.
Her mother, Denise, sat beside her.
“Do not keep doing this.”
“I need to know the lie.”
“You know enough.”
“No. Lies change outfits.”
Denise studied her daughter.
“You haven’t cried since the house.”
“I cried.”
“You shook. That is not the same.”
Cleo stood.
“I have things to do.”
“What things?”
“Get Jamal’s messages copied. Send the call recording to Detective Marquez. Meet Robert.”
“Robert who?”
“Robert Reed. Attorney from Isaiah’s church.”
Denise frowned.
“You’re eighteen.”
“So was Jamal.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer to everything now.”
Cleo picked up her bag.
Denise blocked the doorway.
“You loved him.”
“I still do.”
“Then grieve him.”
“I am.”
“No. You are turning grief into work because work has instructions.”
Cleo looked away.
Her mother continued.
“You can organize evidence because evidence does not ask you to feel anything.”
“If I stop moving, they win.”
“Bart already took Jamal. Do not help him take you.”
Cleo’s face tightened.
“I am not going to sit in a room and be sad while his father buys everyone’s memory.”
“Nobody asked you to sit.”
“You asked me to grieve.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to grieve somebody who should still be alive.”
Denise stepped closer.
“Neither does anyone.”
Cleo’s eyes filled.
“He said my whole name.”
Her mother waited.
“The last time I saw him, I told him to say my whole name and promise he was coming back.”
Denise pulled her close.
Cleo finally cried without trying to make the tears useful.
She cried for the breakfast sandwich still wrapped in foil inside her refrigerator.
For Jamal’s hand lifting at the stairwell.
For the laugh that had sounded permanent.
For every warning she wished had been strong enough to become a wall.
When the tears stopped, the work remained.
Grief had not weakened her.
It had only reminded her why she was fighting.