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Informationen zum Autor Cheryl A. Head (she/her) is the author of the award-winning Charlie Mack Motown mysteries. Head is an Anthony Award nominee, a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist, a three-time Next Generation Indie Book Award finalist, and winner of the Golden Crown Literary Society’s Ann Bannon Popular Choice Award. Klappentext A searing and tender novel about a young Black journalist’s search for answers in the unsolved murder of her great-grandfather in segregated Birmingham, Alabama, decades ago—inspired by the author’s own family history Birmingham, 1929: Robert Lee Harrington, a master carpenter, has just moved to Alabama to pursue a job opportunity, bringing along his pregnant wife and young daughter. Birmingham is in its heyday, known as the “Magic City” for its booming steel industry. But with his beautiful, light-skinned wife and snazzy car, Robert begins to worry that he might be drawing the wrong kind of attention in his new town. Detroit, 2019: Meghan McKenzie, the youngest reporter at the Detroit Free Press , has grown up hearing family lore about her great-grandfather’s murder—but no one knows what really happened back then. Determined to find answers to her family’s long-buried tragedy, Meghan travels to Birmingham. But as her investigation begins to uncover dark secrets that spider across both the city and time, her life may be in danger. Inspired by true events, Time’s Undoing is both a passionate tale of one woman’s quest for the truth behind the racially motivated trauma that has haunted her family for generations and, as newfound friends and supporters in Birmingham rally around Meghan’s search, the uplifting story of a community coming together to fight for change. Leseprobe Prologue 1929 Four hours ‘til dawn. The single streetlamp at the alleyway splays veiled illumination on the wet cobblestone. The rumble and squeak of streetcars ended two hours ago, and the in-a-hurry-owner of the diner hauls out the last of the garbage which tumbles onto the slick red bricks as he slams the door. Cress lifts the collar of his tight-fitting jacket against curly brown hair. Alert. Smoking. Shifting from one leg to the other. Leaning into the shadows every time he hears loud voices from the street. I can’t feel the rain nor smell it, but I sense its fragrance mixed with the relentless forsythia creeping through every patch of dirt. Anna Kate often remarked that the flowers are her favorite part of living in Birmingham. A car engine’s hum grows louder. Cress melts into the darkness when the blue sedan eases forward and idles under the lamp. The sight of it passes a shiver my body doesn’t register. Cress steps forward and drops his smoke, grinding the butt under his boot. He shoves both hands deep into the pockets of his dungarees. The broad-shouldered detective gets out of the car, moves to the front bumper and stops. His hat cocked back. He stares at Cress in the alley then swivels his head to take in his surroundings. He nonchalantly swipes a hand down the breast of his coat. That’s where he keeps his revolver. Cress waits. No longer fidgeting. Squaring his body. He lifts his hands from his pockets and leaves them dangling at his thighs. Finally the big man walks toward him. “You’ve been asking for me, boy?” “Yeah. I owe you money. I got it here,” Cress slides a hand into his jacket. The man tenses. Cress extends a palm. Do these two know each other? The detective closes the gap between them. He’s at least four inches taller but when he draws close, Cress grabs his coat sleeve yanking the big man forward. The guy slips, but doesn’t fall so Cress hits him in the face with his fist—three times—like a sledge hammer on a slab of concrete. The man sinks fumbling for his inside pocket. Cress thrashes him again and again while the struggling detec...
