“I need to see the senator,” I said. I don’t know exactly what I intended to do at that point. Turn myself in, maybe. Or just ask for advice.

Joseph’s annoyance gave way to concern. “My God, Mojo—what’s the matter with you? You look—”

“I want to see my uncle.”

“He’s not here,” Joseph said quietly. He opened the car door. “Move over,” he said. “I’m driving.”

I was clearly not myself. If I had been, I would have told him he wasn’t doing anything of the kind. Instead, I moved to release my seat belt, discovered I’d never fastened it in the first place and scrambled inelegantly over the console into the passenger seat. It was only then that I realized I was still wearing my nightshirt and bathrobe. I was barefoot, too—I must have walked over the gravel in the parking lot at Bert’s without even feeling it. Not good, since there were usually broken beer bottles mixed in with the tiny, sharp rocks.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked. I could have had a career playing the dumb victim in B horror movies.

“I should take you to the nearest hospital,” Joseph said. “What the hell are you on, anyway?”

“I’m not ‘on’ anything,” I protested.

“You couldn’t prove it by me, lady.” Joseph shoved the Volvo back in gear and streaked up the driveway and around to the guesthouse, behind the manor.

“I’ll scream if you touch me,” I warned.

“Go ahead and scream,” Joseph said. “The senator’s away and Mrs. Larimer is upstairs, blitzed out on pills.”

He stopped the car, shut off the engine, got out and stalked around to my side. Pulled open my door.

I tried to hold on to the seat, but he grabbed me by the knees and cranked me around sideways. I was just about to make good on my decision to let out a real howler when he crouched and took hold of one of my ankles.

“Your feet are bleeding,” he said. “What the—?”

I started to cry.

“I killed my parents,” I said.

He lifted his head, looked full into my face. “You are certifiably nuts,” he told me, but there was a new gentleness in the way he spoke. “Come on, Ms. Sheepshanks.” He got to his feet, leaned in and lifted me off the seat and into his arms. “Let’s get you inside before you bring shame and degradation on the family name.”

I laid my head on his shoulder.

Like I said, I was not myself.

“I killed my own parents,” I said.

“Crazy as you are,” Joseph answered, “I seriously doubt it.”

“I remembered—”

“Joseph! What in the world is going on out there?”

Joseph stopped cold. We both looked up and saw Barbara Larimer staring down on us from what was probably the balcony of the master suite.

So much for the blitzed-on-pills theory.

“Mojo’s hurt herself,” Joseph said. “She’s upset. I was just taking her into the guesthouse.”