Diggins pulls into the gas station. He’s off to the side of the pumps, the car running. He puts it in park and the locks click open. Jessup reaches for the door, but Diggins puts his hand on Jessup’s shoulder.
“Jessup,” he says. “This isn’t about you.”
“You can say that, sir, but it sure feels like it’s about me.”
“Look. I wasn’t here when your brother and your dad killed—”
“He’s not my dad.” Jessup knows he’s too sharp, and even as the words leave his mouth, shame washes over him. Judas. But he’s already said it. “He’s my stepfather.”
“Okay.” Diggins nods. “Stepfather. I wasn’t here when your brother and stepfather killed those two kids, but people talk. Everybody knows your family is tied into that white power church, and what happened at the party is going to resonate. Even if Corson hadn’t been drinking and driving—stupid, stupid kid—this would still have been a thing. You can’t believe that the other kids at the party wouldn’t talk?”
“I was eleven,” Jessup says. He’s not angry anymore, not ashamed either. He’s broken and trying not to cry. Trying to be a man. “I was eleven when it happened.”
“Sure,” Diggins says. “It’s not your fault. But it’s going to follow you around. When a black kid says you called him the N-word, that’s going to stick. There’s no reason not to believe him.”