Zariah Harper stepped off the Greyhound into a wave of Memphis heat thick enough to choke. The scent of smoked ribs, spilled beer, and old brick filled the air. All around her, Beale Street throbbed with life—blues notes drifting from open bar doors, laughter echoing off graffitied alley walls, and the steady stomp of sneakers against faded pavement.


This was the city her grandfather died in.


She adjusted her bag and moved through the crowd, keeping her eyes sharp and movements tight. She hadn’t been back in years, not since her uncle James was found dead behind a jazz club—no suspects, no motive, just a crushed windpipe and a trumpet mouthpiece clutched in his hand.


“Z!” a voice called out.


She turned to see Marcus sprinting down the street, camera bag bouncing on his shoulder, thick-rimmed glasses fogged from the heat. He looked exactly the same—nerdy, loud, and way too obsessed with local legends.


“You made it,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “Did the ghosts whisper to you on the ride down?”


“Not today,” she replied dryly. “I left the Ouija board at home.”


Marcus grinned. “You say that now, but wait till you hear what I found. This Juneteenth weekend? It’s not just a party this year. It’s a full-circle moment. Fifty years since the Beale Street Massacre—”


“There was no massacre,” Zariah interrupted. “That’s a myth.”


He shrugged. “Call it what you want. People died. And now they’re dying again.”


Before she could respond, a black Jeep honked and rolled up beside them. Tamika leaned out the window, sunglasses perched on her head and a red cup in her hand. “Y’all standing out here like tourists,” she called. “Get in. Keenan’s already at the Airbnb.”


Zariah slid into the back seat, the bass thumping through the speakers like a second heartbeat. They sped through the city, past murals of Black icons and boarded-up shops. She watched it all silently, a knot forming in her stomach.


She should’ve stayed home. But something had pulled her back.


Maybe it was Marcus’s call. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was her need to understand why every Harper who stayed in Memphis ended up dead or broken.


As they parked in front of the rented two-story just off South Main, Keenan appeared on the porch. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, and dressed like a Black Panther on vacation, he gave her a long look before smiling.


“You look good, Z,” he said. “Welcome home.”


She nodded, but didn’t return the smile. Instead, she looked at the cracked sidewalk beneath her feet.


Because deep in her chest, something cold and old stirred—like the silence before a scream.