No one recognized Nia.
Or if they did, they left her alone.
She liked that.
Near the waterfront, Danielle stopped at a dessert truck.
“Vanilla?”
Nia nodded.
“Two?”
Danielle smiled.
“Three.”
They bought one for themselves.
And one they carried to the cemetery later.
Evelyn’s headstone was simple.
EVELYN CARTER
1949–2028
MOTHER. GRANDMOTHER. JUDGE.
SHE LISTENED.
Nia had chosen the final line.
Danielle placed the ice cream cup beside the stone.
“She would complain it’s melting.”
“She would complain it’s chocolate.”
“True.”
They sat in the grass.
After a while Danielle asked, “Do you remember what happened before Grandma came?”
“Yes.”
“Clearly?”
“Some.”
“What do you remember most?”
Nia thought.
“The cones were really heavy.”
Danielle laughed.
“Seriously.”
“I was trying not to drop yours.”
“You weren’t carrying mine.”
“Grandma’s.”
“You remember the officer?”
“Yes.”
“Her grabbing you?”
“Yes.”
“Does it still scare you?”
Nia considered.
“Not like before.”
Danielle nodded.
“Good.”
Nia looked at the headstone.
“You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“For years everyone asked whether I was scared of police afterward.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
She pulled one knee toward her chest.
“But nobody asked if I was scared of not being believed.”
Danielle looked at her.
“That was worse.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you still?”
Nia smiled.
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do?”
“Find evidence.”
Danielle laughed.
“Grandma wins.”
“And sometimes I don’t.”
“What then?”
Nia looked across the cemetery.
“I decide the truth is still true even if somebody else hasn’t accepted it yet.”
Danielle’s eyes filled.
“You sound like her.”
“Terrifying.”
“Very.”
They stayed until the ice cream melted completely.
Before leaving, Nia picked up the cup.
No littering.
Evelyn would absolutely have objected.
Years later, when Nia told the story to her own daughter, she did not begin with Dana.
She began with two ice cream cones.
Her daughter was six.
She interrupted constantly.
“Were they huge?”
“Yes.”
“How huge?”
“Ridiculous.”
“Bigger than my head?”