The Law And The Liar

The sirens always came too late.

By the time I heard them, I was already running.

I didn’t think. I didn’t stop to grab my shoes. I didn’t even lock the door. I just ran — bare feet slapping the concrete, lungs screaming for air, heart pounding like it was trying to warn me of something I already knew.

It was Kaden.

The night was heavy with heat and tension. I didn’t know where I was going, not exactly — just that my feet carried me faster the closer I got to 147th Street. A streetlight flickered above the alley, casting jittery shadows on the sidewalk. I could already see the glow of red and blue lights in the distance. Already hear the static of police radios. Already feel the weight settling in my stomach like a stone.

People were gathered.

The alley looked like a twisted carnival, flashing lights painting the brick walls in dizzying color. But there was no music. Just silence. The kind that swallows you whole.

I pushed past the crowd, ignoring the voices trying to hold me back.

“Miss, you can’t go in there—”

“That’s my brother!” I screamed.

And I ducked under the tape before anyone could stop me.

I saw him before my brain accepted it.

Kaden.

Crumbled like a broken promise. One sneaker missing. Hoodie soaked in blood. Head turned slightly toward me like he'd been trying to look — trying to wait.

I dropped to my knees beside him.

“Kaden?”

“Kaden, wake up. Please. Please…”

A cop grabbed my shoulder and tried to pull me away, but I fought him off.

“He’s not—he’s not dead! Do something!”

“I’m sorry,” came a voice behind me. Flat. Professional.

“He’s gone.”

I didn’t cry.

I just stared.

Because this couldn’t be real. He was supposed to be untouchable. Kaden Black — my big brother. The smart one. The golden boy. He got us through everything. He talked his way out of fights, out of trouble, out of tickets and stop-and-frisks and bad blocks. He had plans. He was going to be a lawyer. He wanted to fix the system that broke us.

Now he was lying on the ground like the city had chewed him up and spit him out.

Like he didn’t matter.

The detectives didn’t have answers. Just pity. A cold badge and a colder shrug.

They said, “Wrong place, wrong time.”

Three weeks later, they closed the case.

No leads.
No witnesses.
Just another dead Black boy in the system.

That was the night I cried — alone, in the dark, wearing his old Knicks hoodie like it could hold me together.

That was the night I changed.

Because if the system wouldn’t give me justice,