Chapter 6
RONAN
I shifted on the metal bench, my back stiff after sitting for hours as night settled over the holding area. I kept thinking about Nia’s lips on mine in the dark.
Most of the detainees slept where they could, curled up on benches or pressed against the walls. Every so often, a snore would pull me out of my restless thoughts. The place stunk of sweat and neglect.
Nia sat next to me, her locs framing her face and softening her features. Neither of us brought up the kiss. It lingered between us, hard to forget.
“You ever go fishing as a kid?” The question came out in a hushed voice.
“Fishing?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about summers in Alabama. My daddy used to take me to this creek out past Birmingham.”
Nia was quiet for a moment, a half smile tugging at her mouth. “My uncle had a spot. A little lake only the locals knew about. Unc would catch catfish bigger than my arm and talk about it for months.”
I felt something ease in my chest. “Sounds familiar. My old man could stretch a fishing story, too. The bass got bigger every time he told it.”
“Black folks and their fishing stories. A universal constant. Like church picnics lasting all day.”
“And family reunions where you meet cousins you never knew existed.” I chuckled.
“And the auntie who pinches your cheeks so hard you almost cried.”
We both chuckled softly, conscious of the sleeping people around us.
“My mother had this garden, nothing big, a little patch behind our house. Man, she grew the best collards. On Sunday mornings, I’d wake up to those greens cooking with ham hocks and cornbread in the oven.”
Nia nodded. “Don’t forget the hot sauce. I like mine spicy. Or what about sitting in church for three hours, sweating through your good clothes while the pastor went on and on about hellfire.”
“And somehow your mama knew when you were about to fall asleep.”
“That’s the sixth sense. Listen, mine would give me a look, and that’s all it took.”
Nia shifted, tucking her legs beneath her on the bench with her body angled toward mine.
“What about your mother? What is she like?” I asked, curious about the woman who’d raised someone like Nia, someone full of fire and compassion.
“She was a librarian at the elementary school. She believed books could save souls better than any church. Our house was full of them, novels and books about Black history.”
“She sounds remarkable.”
“She was. Is. Taught me to question everything, especially the official story. Said history belongs to the people who lived it.”
I nodded. “Ah, that explains things.”
“What things?”
“Your thoroughness. The way you document everything. I saw you recording at the protest.”
“Mama always said if you don’t tell your own story, someone else will tell it for you. And they’ll get it wrong.”
A guard walked past, and we fell silent until his footsteps faded.
“You know you’re not completely terrible at conversation for a cop.”
I smiled. “High praise coming from you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
We found some unexpected common ground in our memories of Alabama. When the conversation faded, I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.
“I had a brother, Devon.”
The shift in her tone made me open my eyes and sit up straight. It was something about the way she said ‘had’ that was heavy with meaning.
“He was four years older than me. Smart as hell, on a full scholarship to Howard. He came home on break during my sophomore year of college. Devon was visiting a friend in the wrong apartment complex at the wrong time.”
My throat tightened as I realized where her story was going. I’d heard too many stories like this, from both sides of the badge.
“Devon was sitting on the couch when the raid happened. The DEA and local police claimed they had intel about a dealer in the building, but they kicked in the wrong door. They said he moved suddenly and reached for something.”
I didn’t need her to finish to know what came next.
“Three shots. Devon was dead before the ambulance arrived. Body cam wasn’t a thing back then. No witnesses except the officers involved, all who gave identical statements. They never found the gun they claimed he reached for.”
My jaw clenched so hard it ached up to my temple. I wanted to pull away from a truth that hit too close to home.
“No one was charged, and the case was buried. That’s why I do what I do.”
It hurt deeply to know I was part of the system that took her brother and denied her family justice.
“Seven years ago, it still feels like yesterday.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, though the words felt pathetically inadequate when they left my mouth.
Nia shook her head. “I don’t need sorry. Sorry doesn’t fix the broken system or bring Devon back.”
“You’re right.”
Nia looked surprised that I agreed so easily. She must have expected me to argue. The anger in her face faded a little.
“I couldn’t eat or sleep after it happened.
I kept thinking about how the police controlled the narrative.
The case was closed, and all we received was an official police statement, telling us to move on.
Devon became a cautionary tale about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That’s why I document these stories and create records that can’t be minimized or erased.
To make sure my brother’s death meant something.
My mama called it channeling grief into purpose. ”
“That takes a lot of strength. Most people wouldn’t have the discipline to turn pain into something constructive.”
“Yeah, well, murder is a hell of a motivator.”
Part of me wanted to defend police procedure, but as a Black man, I knew what it felt like to be seen as a threat just for existing. I knew not to offer empty reassurances.
“You’re awfully quiet. No defense of your brothers in blue?”
I blew out air. “Would it make a difference if I offered one?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why ask for it?”
Nia tilted her head. “Good point.”
I swiped a hand down my face. “I could tell you I personally fought for every reform, but it won’t bring your brother back.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“I won’t insult you by pretending I understand what it’s like to lose someone that way. What I understand is the system failed your brother and your family.”
Nia blinked at my admission, her eyes glossy. “That’s not what most cops would say.”
“I’m not most cops. You’re not the only one questioning the system. You just do it from the outside. I do it from within.”
She gestured to the room we were in. “How’s that working out for you?”
I laughed. “Today? Not so great.”
That pulled a reluctant smile from her. “Yeah, getting arrested in your own jurisdiction probably counts as a bad day, even for Chief Pretty Boy.”
The nickname should’ve annoyed me, but coming from Nia, it felt like affection.
“For what it’s worth, I believe you about your brother. If I’d been chief back, then . . .” I stopped, not wanting to make promises about a past I couldn’t change.
“You’d have done what? Gone against your officers? Pushed for charges?” Her voice was curious, not accusing, like she wanted to know how far I’d go.
“I’d have made sure there was a real investigation, not a cover-up. I can’t promise what would have happened, but it would have been open.”
“I want to believe there are good cops. I just haven’t seen any evidence.”
I didn’t have an answer for Nia. I nodded, accepting her truth without trying to rewrite it.
Instead, we sat in the aftermath of her confession.
Nia’s story hit different, maybe because I’d witnessed her strength all day.
Or it could be because I’d already crossed a line with her, tasting her lips in the darkness, waking up my loins that had been sleeping too damn long.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m in no-man’s-land, bullets coming from both directions.
Like I’m speaking a language nobody wants to understand.
I push for accountability. They resent me.
I enforce procedure, and the community sees me as a sellout.
I can’t be Black enough for some, or blue enough for others,” I added with a bitter laugh.
Nia studied me. “Sounds lonely.”
Her observation caught me off guard. “Yeah, it is.”
Our hands rested on the bench between us. I noticed how easy it would be to close the gap. So I did. I moved my pinky and linked it with hers. The touch was light, her skin warm against mine. That small connection meant more than the kiss we’d shared earlier.
The kiss was an impulse, a rush of adrenaline, but this touch was a choice. I stared at the ceiling, not wanting her to see how much I cared about what Dr. Nia Price thought of me.
After what felt like forever, though it was only a few minutes, we slowly moved our hands apart. It felt like another wall between us had come down.
“My brother used to say there were two kinds of fighters. Those on the front lines and those behind enemy lines, changing things from within.”
Her words echoed my own thoughts. “Which did he think worked better?”
“He said we needed both. Said the system was too big to fall to just one approach.”
“Smart man.”
Sadness was in her eyes, but not the raw grief from earlier. “Yeah, he was.”
We were both fighting for the same thing, just from different sides.