“What kind of things?” she questions.
“His grandmother has cancer. I didn’t know until he told me that evening.”
“I see,” Gomez says. “What happened after that?”
“A fight occurred at the party, so we left together in his car.”
“Khalil didn’t have anything to do with the fight?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Nah.”
Dammit. Proper English.
I sit up straight. “I mean, no, ma’am. We were talking when the fight occurred.”
“Okay, so you two left. Where were you going?”
“He offered to take me home or to my father’s grocery store. Before we could decide, One-Fifteen pulled us over.”
“Who?” she asks.
“The officer, that’s his badge number,” I say. “I remember it.”
Wilkes scribbles.
“I see,” Gomez says. “Can you describe what happened next?”
I don’t think I’ll ever forget what happened, but saying it out loud, that’s different. And hard.
My eyes prickle. I blink, staring at the table.
Momma rubs my back. “Look up, Starr.”
My parents have this thing where they never want me or my brothers to talk to somebody without looking them in their eyes. They claim that a person’s eyes say more than their mouth, and that it goes both ways—if we look someone in their eyes and mean what we say, they should have little reason to doubt us.
I look at Gomez.
“Khalil pulled over to the side of the road and turned the ignition off,” I say. “One-Fifteen put his brights on. He approached the window and asked Khalil for his license and registration.”
“Did Khalil comply?” Gomez asks.
“He asked the officer why he pulled us over first. Then he showed his license and registration.”
“Did Khalil seem irate during this exchange?”
“Annoyed, not irate,” I say. “He felt that the cop was harassing him.”
“Did he tell you this?”
“No, but I could tell. I assumed the same thing myself.”
Shit.
Gomez scoots closer. Maroon lipstick stains her teeth, and her breath smells like coffee. “And why was that?”
Breathe.
The room isn’t hot. You’re nervous.
“Because we weren’t doing anything wrong,” I say. “Khalil wasn’t speeding or driving recklessly. It didn’t seem like he had a reason to pull us over.”
“I see. What happened next?”
“The officer forced Khalil out the car.”
“Forced?” she says.
“Yes, ma’am. He pulled him out.”
“Because Khalil was hesitant, right?”
Momma makes this throaty sound, like she was about to say something but stopped herself. She purses her lips and rubs my back in circles.
I remember what Daddy said—“Don’t let them put words in your mouth.”
“No, ma’am,” I say to Gomez. “He was getting out on his own, and the officer yanked him the rest of the way.”
She says “I see” again, but she didn’t see it so she probably doesn’t believe it. “What happened next?” she asks.
“The officer patted Khalil down three times.”
“Three?”
Yeah. I counted. “Yes, ma’am. He didn’t find anything. He then told Khalil to stay put while he ran his license and registration.”
“But Khalil didn’t stay put, did he?” she says.
“He didn’t pull the trigger on himself either.”
Shit. Your fucking big mouth.
The detectives glance at each other. A moment of silent conversation.
The walls move in closer. The grip around my lungs returns. I pull my shirt away from my neck.
“I think we’re done for today,” Momma says, taking my hand as she starts to stand up.
“But Mrs. Carter, we’re not finished.”
“I don’t care—”
“Mom,” I say, and she looks down at me. “It’s okay. I can do this.”
She gives them a glare similar to the one she gives me and my brothers when we’ve pushed her to her limit. She sits down but holds on to my hand.
“Okay,” Gomez says. “So he patted Khalil down and told him he would check his license and registration. What next?”
“Khalil opened the driver’s side door and—”
Pow!
Pow!
Pow!
Blood.
Tears crawl down my cheeks. I wipe them on my arm. “The officer shot him.”
“Do you—” Gomez starts, but Momma holds a finger toward her.
“Could you please give her a second,” she says. It sounds more like an order than a question.
Gomez doesn’t say anything. Wilkes scribbles some more.
My mom wipes some of my tears for me. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
“Okay,” Gomez says, and takes a deep breath. “Do you know why Khalil came to the door, Starr?”
“I think he was coming to ask if I was okay.”
“You think?”
I’m not a telepath. “Yes, ma’am. He started asking but didn’t finish because the officer shot him in the back.”
More salty tears fall on my lips.
Gomez leans across the table. “We all want to get to the bottom of this, Starr. We appreciate your cooperation. I understand this is hard right now.”