That warehouse in the old train depot district... that's where things started to change. I had found a rusted-out hole in the corrugated metal walls along the side of the building and, stepping through it, I think I can recall feeling a strange sensation - almost imperceptible - but I remember thinking it odd that this metal should have a build-up of static electricity. When I didn't actually receive the expected shock of any kind, I dismissed the thought and my mind gave over to a state of investigatory curiosity.

I was searching for something the police had missed three months ago when this had been a “location of interest” - the last known whereabouts, according to closed-circuit security video, of Ms. Stacy Malone-Edwards. It didn't stay a location of interest for long, though. as missing persons cases in this part of the country only stay active as long as the missing person is white, young, attractive and, usually, from a family of some means. Stacy was none of these things. A black woman, poor from birth, in her late forties and showing every day of her age after raising 3 children on her own, Stacy's disappearance hardly made the 24-hour news cycle at all. A brief announcement was made several days after her family - that it, her mother and her eldest son - had reported her missing. It appeared on the local nightly news with a request that anyone with any information please call the number on the screen... and that was it.

The local police had done their usual "missing person" search here, but when nothing substantial had turned up, it was presumed that she had simply "run away" - abandoned her whole life and family - or perhaps a secret suicide where she'd jumped off a bridge and the body was never found. These things were known to happen once in a blue moon, but... her family said that was impossible. Insane, even. And I tend to agree.

I met Stacy four years ago when I became her social worker. Technically, I was the social worker for her eldest son, David, as he had been in and out of juvenile hall several times before turning 16. So, at 17, he was out on a probation that required close tabs to be kept on him and his home life as he prepared to step into adulthood. That’s where I came in. 


"David is a good kid," she insisted. Now, all social workers have heard this from almost every parent that gives a damn about their child. Sometimes it was true, sometimes I wasn't convinced by the mere mention of a claim. But Stacy wasn't pleading with me to believe her; she was stating this, not even as an opinion, but as if it had been proven scientifically. She knew that David was a good kid, as a matter of pure fact. She was bold and determined in her pronouncement of his character. And this made me take it on faith (much more than I usually would) that she was absolutely right.

"But he's a product of his environment," she continued. "And this city - and the white, affluent communities all around us, and even taking over our neighborhood - can turn a good kid into a 'hood', a thug, a gangster... any kind of boogeyman they want to suit their narrative. I've known that all my life and I've done everything I could think of to keep that from happening."

I sat at my desk, across from Ms. Malone-Edwards, in my office, forearms on my desk, leaning in, brow furrowed and ears pricked, to listen and absorb her declaration. And she explained it all to me in no uncertain terms.

"But when a young man wants to feel some sense of control over his life… when he's growing up in these streets, where we all feel powerless and afraid - afraid of a million kinds of violence, and even death, on a daily basis - he's gonna do whatever he has to do. A young man - hell, anyone out here! - will take a life without giving it a second thought... if it means he gets to live another day and have a say in what path his life goes down."

That summer, I helped Stacy get David on a different track. He's in college now, and doing much better. But today, he and his younger brother and sister, are without a mother... at least for the time-being.