Traffic thinned as I got on the highway, pressing the gas harder than I needed to. The cemetery would close at sunset. I had maybe two hours to figure out what I was doing, what I would risk, and if the fragile connection I had with Nia was worth fighting for, even if she’d already let it go.
Oak Ridge Cemetery hadn’t changed since the last time I’d been here, eight months ago on Dad’s birthday. The perfectly trimmed grass between the plots made you lower your voice automatically, as if you were in church. I followed the path to the southeast corner, my polished shoes crunching on the gravel,hands shoved deep in my pockets like a guilty teenager instead of the grown-ass police chief I claimed to be.
The groundskeeper nodded, recognition in his eyes but respect in his silence. I’d come here long enough that most of the staff knew me—knew to let me be with my thoughts and my father. Today, I was especially grateful for that courtesy.
My father’s headstone stood beneath the shade of a massive oak, simple black granite with gold lettering: “Speak Truth To Power.” Mama had insisted on that inscription. Said it was what he’d lived by. Some days, I wondered if he’d be disappointed by how much I’d compromised that principle in the name of working within the system.
I stood awkwardly for a moment, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Hadn’t planned what to say, hadn’t really planned to come here at all until the grocery store encounter sent me spiraling. Now that I was here, the silence stretched uncomfortably.
“Hey, Dad, I know it’s been a minute.”
I always felt foolish at first, talking to a slab of stone, but Mama swore Dad could hear me. Said Black folks knew better than most that the veil between living and dead was thin as gossamer.
I crouched down, my knees protesting the movement, and traced the carved letters of his name with my fingertip. James Ronan Banks. The original Ronan Banks. I was just the sequel, and not always a worthy one.
“I met someone, not just anyone. Dr. Nia Price. You’d have liked her, I think. Smart. Fearless. Calls out injustice without flinching. Reminds me a little of Mama that way.” A smile tugged at my mouth despite everything.
A breeze rustled through the oak leaves above me like a nod.
My voice dropped lower; the confession was easier when directed at stone rather than flesh. “Thing is, I think I messedit up before it really started. Leading from fear, not conviction. Just like you warned me not to.”
I stood up, legs stiff, and paced a small circle in front of the grave. I’d left my uniform jacket in the car. It was too formal for this conversation, but I was still every inch the chief, in pressed slacks and a button-down shirt.
“You told me a man who leads from fear will always compromise at the wrong moment. I thought I understood, but I didn’t. I’ve been so busy trying to change things from within that I forgot to stand firm on what matters.”
I turned back toward the headstone. “Nia’s on a federal watchlist now labeled a ‘potential disruptor.’ Same kind of bullshit they tried on you. And instead of standing beside her, letting them see exactly where I stand, I’ve been making quiet phone calls. Working channels. Playing politics.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, surprising me. I wiped it away quickly, grateful for the cemetery’s emptiness.
“Now she’s pulling away. I can’t blame her. What good is a man who’ll love you in private but won’t stand with you in public?”
The word “love” hung in the air between me and the stone. I hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even allowed myself to think it, but there it spilled out at my father’s feet like an offering.
I looked at my feet, at the rough ground under my polished shoes. “I’m repeating your pattern. You did it from the pulpit, I do it from behind a badge. Different uniforms, same fear.”
My father, a great man, was brave when it counted and principled to his core. He also kept his family separate from his work, thinking he was protecting us from the dangers of his activism. It had created a distance I still felt, even years after his death, a gap between public purpose and private connection that I was now replicating with Nia.
“Avoiding risk isn’t the same as integrity, is it? I told myself I’m playing the long game, but maybe I’m just playing it safe.”
My father had died suddenly, an aneurysm, no warning, leaving so many conversations unfinished between us. I’d spent years wondering what else he might have taught me if he’d had more time. I couldn’t help but think the lesson I needed most was already here, in the space between what he preached and how he lived. In the gap between his public courage and private caution.
Choosing Nia meant standing publicly with a woman the government had labeled dangerous. The path forward wasn’t clear, and the consequences weren’t fully known.
Dusk settled as I stood at my father’s grave. The decision ahead was hard. The groundskeeper appeared in the distance, reminding me the cemetery would close soon. I nodded, took one last look at the headstone, and walked to my car.
The churning in my gut quieted. I knew what kind of man I wanted to be, what kind of man my father had raised me to be, even if I hadn’t yet found the courage to fully become him.
13
NIA
“Shit.” I hit the steering wheel with my palm. The sting didn’t come close to making up for how I’d treated him, or for the look on Ronan’s face when I shut him down at the grocery store. I hadn’t wanted to do it. What else could I have done?
“I’m just busy. Things are complicated right now.”
That was bullshit. Complete, cowardly bullshit.
The upcoming traffic light turned yellow, and though I could’ve made it, I slowed to a stop. Lately, it seemed I was hitting the brakes in every aspect of my life. I checked the rearview mirror, a habit since my name hit the federal watch list. I froze briefly as a silver car pulled up behind me. It looked normal, but threats appeared everywhere, even in ordinary commuter cars with stick-figure family decals.
