“Miss Sadie, what do you know about Richard Wong?”
The girl put her head in her hands like she really was going to cry. Lina didn’t want to see this. Didn’t even want to know. She wished she’d never invited Sadie up to her apartment.
“He’s my grandfather.”
Sadie raised her face, met Lina’s eyes—and Lina held the gaze, held it without moving or screaming.
“Is Richard Wong alive?”
“No. He died when I was a baby.”
“You knew what he did when you came to my house today?” She tried to keep her voice flat, her face devoid of emotion.
“I… knew he owned the building. I knew he did something.”
“And why didn’t you say anything about that, Miss Sadie?”
“I wanted to know what happened.”
“Your family couldn’t tell you? You wanted to hear it from the victim’s mouth?”
“No one in my family knows.”
“Now you know what happened! Now you can get out of my house!” Unable to bear the sight of Sadie’s face, Lina limped to the window.
“I’m so sorry. I was just hoping to bring this to light, to write…”
“Your grandpa burned down my home! And now you have the nerve to set foot in this one?”
“Maybe if you give me a chance to explain, we could work together.”
Lina was appalled by the girl’s audacity. She gripped the window frame with one hand. “You think after you lied to me, I still trust you enough to work with you? When I say get out of my house, you get out of my house!”
No one said anything then. She heard the rustle of coats and furniture.
“I’m really sorry,” the reporter attempted once again.
Lina heard footsteps and the door slowly opening. Several footsteps—Tyrell’s sneakers. He had unlocked the front door.
She looked over her shoulder—saw Tyrell with his eyes lowered and his arms folded, propping open the door, and the girl, tearing up as she shuffled into the hallway.
Once Sadie Chin was gone, Lina could tell Tyrell wanted to talk to her, but she didn’t want to hear it.
She dialed a tenant organizer, reaching her voicemail.
“Rhonda, it’s Lina. You know that reporter I told you about? She ain’t who she said she was. Just wanted to let you know. See you Sunday.”
She dialed the violence interrupter, Mr. Q.
“Mr. Q, Lina here. That reporter I told you about, don’t bother with her. Yeah. I shouldn’t have given her your number. You get a call from her, let it ring, she ain’t worth your time.”
She dialed the youth mentors, the leaders of the running club, the librarians, and a few additional community organizers Miss Sadie might have met on her own time, Tyrell watching her from the door of the kitchen.
Last, she dialed Keesha, canceled their meeting, and collapsed in her living room chair.
“I’m protecting my people,” she said aloud. “I could’ve done a better job of that in ’78. And now I’m doing it.”
Tyrell sat down on the couch across from her, silent.
