The next Sunday dawned hot enough to make the pines steam where the sun hit the wet needles. The small colored church outside Alcolu stood half-hidden among scrub oaks, its clapboard walls bright as a bleached bone under the sun.
Inside, the old fans flapped like bird wings as the congregation hummed low, restless. Word had spread that morning: Ikrist Raya's mama was coming to speak. And she was bringing the lawyer with her — the man from New York who dared look the sheriff dead in the eye.
Anna Raya stood in the back, clutching Amie's hand while Elijah spoke with Reverend Paulson near the pulpit. The preacher's tie was frayed, his Bible's spine cracked, but when he nodded, the hush that fell inside the small church felt strong enough to hold back a storm.
---
When Anna stepped up front, her hands shook. Not with fear of speaking — she'd never spoken in front of more than her own children and Caleb by the kitchen table — but with the weight of the truth she had to push past her throat.
Her voice trembled at first. But when she looked out at the faces — women who had stitched her clothes, men who'd stood behind Caleb in the mill line, elders who'd rocked her babies when she'd had no milk left — her voice grew steady.
"My boy is innocent," Anna said, her chin lifting a fraction higher with every word. "They took him 'cause they needed someone. They took him 'cause he's small and poor and Black and easy. But I know my boy. And I know God knows my boy."
A murmur rose — small Amens and Yes, Lord. Elijah watched her from the front pew, his pen still, his eyes sharp as he measured how far her courage could reach.
"They say we supposed to stay quiet," Anna went on. "They say we supposed to thank 'em for lettin' us live here, work here, breathe here. But I got a son locked in that jail for somethin' he did not do, and I will not thank no man for stealin' my baby's life."
Someone in the back called out, "Tell it, Anna!"
She pressed her palm to her chest. "I'm askin' — no, I'm beggin' — for help. If you saw somethin', say it. If you heard somethin', tell it. Don't let 'em bury my child to keep their lies neat."
Reverend Paulson stepped up, hand resting on her shoulder. He lifted his voice over the hum. "God's truth is not a quiet thing," he said, voice deep as the pine woods. "It hollers through the trees when men try to hide it. We stand with this family — do we not?"
Amens and Yes, Revs filled the tight walls, louder this time, strong enough to press back the fear that lived in every man's pocket like a folded paper no one dared unfold.
---
When they stepped back outside, the sun hit them full on, hot and sharp. Anna's shoulders felt lighter, her throat raw but clean. Elijah put a steady hand on her arm.
"You did more in there than any lawyer's paper ever could," he told her.
She managed a tired smile. "Truth ain't worth much if nobody's willin' to say it out loud."
---
In town, the ripple hit the mill first. Men whispered over the roar of machines, passing rumors under the clatter of the looms. A colored woman said she saw something — two white boys near the ditch where the girls were found. A cousin of the sheriff's deputy said Ikrist was just playing by the tracks when the sheriff pulled him in.
By nightfall, the gossip had turned to worry. Sheriff Hammond sat in his office, a fresh cigar chewed down to the stub. His eyes flicked over a list Croft had scribbled — folks asking questions they shouldn't ask.
"Time to remind these people who runs this town," Hammond growled.
Croft shifted uneasily. "It's just talk, Sheriff."
Hammond slammed his fist on the desk. "Talk's how rope gets cut loose before you tie the knot. I want it stopped."
---
But out by the pines, in small shacks lit by oil lamps, truth was waking up — restless and ready to knock on a few doors in daylight.
And in his cell, Ikrist dreamed for the first time in weeks of home — of the way his mama's voice sounded when she was strong enough to fight for him in the light of day.