Page 5 of Ghost in the Night

“Nope,” Robby says. “They’re called live oaks. They’re the official state tree of Georgia. The long plants hanging off their branches are Spanish moss, which are full of chiggers, red ants, and spider mites, so DON’T touch them.”

“Oh,” I say, holding in a laugh. “Good to know.”

Lena reaches across the table to touch Robby’s arm. “My baby is a bit of a boy genius. He gets it from his father’s side of the family ’cause I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night, but he could remember just about anything you put in front of him.”

“I’m skipping two grades and starting middle school next year,” he announces proudly. “And I homeschool right now.”

“Skipping grades? Homeschooling?” Dad laughs. “But what about playing ball and kicking it with the homies?”

Robby scoffs. “That’s kid stuff.”

Lena shakes her head and laughs too. As we eat, she and Daddy talk about music, from jazz to hip-hop to rock and roll. It’s like being around music historians.

“Are you a musician?” I ask Lena.

“No. I’m the director of event planning for the Savannah Historical Society,” she explains. “They host a gala every year, raising money for different programming.”

“Mom gets really dressed up for it,” Robby adds.

“I’ve been busy running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to sell as many tickets as I can. I even roped your father into performing.”

I look at Dad, who stares down into his bowl. He never mentioned that gig. “Is the whole band performing?” I ask him.

“Nah. Just me,” he says with a shrug. “A little mood music. Gotta break out my suit and tie for this one.”

Does he even have his suit and tie? When we were packing, he said we could only bring a bag and a half, since we had to carry so much gear. I left most of my stuff behind, including Grandma’s photo albums.

I’m about to ask him when Lena gasps loudly, her attention on the TV behind us.

“They’re talking about Mr. Truman!” Robby says, pointing to the screen.

Lena grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the news.

“There are still no leads on the murder of a local business owner Tim Truman, whose body was found yesterday morning on a side street near Colonial Park Cemetery …”

Murder?I think, feeling a chill down my back. No wonder Lena didn’t want Robby to hear about this. But now he’s watching the report with the rest of us, hearing words likeblunt-force trauma as a cause of death.

A photo of  Tim Truman pops up on the screen. He was about Dad’s age—tall, bald, lean, with a wide smile and ears that stuck out a touch. Lena covers her mouth as if to keep in a sob.

“… Mr. Truman’s death is presumed to be a robbery gone wrong. His young nephew Jabari Robinson, who he was last seen with, is still missing. Police are asking for any leads.”

The four of us sit silent, staring at the TV, the ceiling fan clicking as it spins above. The news report switches to the weather and Lena shuts off the TV. Nobody really feels like eating now.

Lena brushes away a tear. “I’m sorry y’all are arriving atsuch a terrible time,” she says to me and Dad. Her hands clench into fists. “I have no idea who would want to”—she glances at Robby, who looks worried—“hurt Tim Truman. He was a good man. He really believed in community and loved Savannah. And his little nephew Jabari was staying with him for a few weeks while his mother and brother toured colleges. The police have been searching everywhere and can’t find the boy. They’re thinking he might’ve been kidnapped. Could you imagine? His poor mother!”

I bite my lip, gripping my arms. This sounds really bad.

“How, um, did you know Mr. Truman?” I ask Lena, because I’m not sure what else to say.

“He ran the Black History Tours here in Savannah, so we worked together a bunch,” Lena explains. “He always stayed on the historical society’s neck, making sure we had an accurate account of history. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

I feel a twitch of sadness seep in. ’Cause I know all about not believing when someone is gone. It took me months to believe Grandma was gone. Dad gives me a look as if reading my mind. Or maybe he’s having the same thought. Anytime Grandma comes up, it’s like the air is stolen out ofour lungs, our hearts stop for a second and start back up again. Unlike her heart, that just stopped.

“The community’s having a little memorial for Tim in a few days,” Lena adds. “I’ll be going to pay my respects.”

“We could join you if you’d like,” Dad tells her supportively.

A memorial?I think with a slight quiver. After Grandma’s funeral, I’ve been to enough services to last a lifetime. I don’t think I can take another.