“Do you remember Mama Nelle—”

“Nellie,” Oliver corrected me.

“Right,” I said. “Nellie. Jesse’s little sister? You stayed with them when—”

“The cutest little girl.” Judith smiled. “Of course I remember her.”

“She passed away recently, and she and I … we’d gotten to know each other and she knew I was working on the mural and she left me your journal.”

“Nellie had my journal?” Judith looked perplexed, and I guessed she didn’t remember leaving it behind when she ran.

“Her family—Jesse’s family—kept you safe,” Oliver said. “Do you remember that? You stayed with them, while Jesse drove off with the mural in your—”

“Oh, yes, I remember that very well.” She chuckled. “Years later, he told me he stowed it in one of his cousin’s haylofts before he went in the army. He never told me he found it again, though.” She looked at me. “Do you know about the … the man? The Edenton portrait artist?” Her expression was wary, as though she wasn’t certain she wanted to go there.

I nodded. “Martin Drapple,” I said. I thought the name made her wince, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m sorry all that happened to you.”

“What happened to you?” Gloria asked.

“Later.” Judith held up a hand to hush her. She looked from Oliver to me. “I was scared when Jesse moved back to Edenton in … when was it? The late seventies. Early eighties? I didn’t know who they thought killed that terrible man. I felt safe, hidden away with a new name in New York. But for Jesse to come back here then? A black man? And he kept his same name? I knew there was no … what do you call it? The statute…”

“Statute of limitations,” Oliver said.

“Right,” Judith said. “No statute of limitations on murder, and—”

“Murder!” Gloria exclaimed, and we all ignored her.

“And if they suspected he might have done it…” Judith let her voice trail off.

“We wondered about that,” I said. “How could he have come back safely?”

“It was that boy…” Judith looked into the distance, as if trying to remember. “A boy who helped Jesse and me in the warehouse. Blond hair. I don’t—”

“Peter?” I asked.

“Was that his name? I believe it was.” She nodded. “By the time Jesse had some fame as a New York artist, twentysome years had passed. Peter was high up in the police force here by then. I don’t know exactly how, but he swept things under the rug. And by the time Jesse actually moved back to Edenton, Peter was chief of police. Plus forty years had passed. No one remembered what had happened, and if they did, they didn’t care. By then, it was ‘keep your hands off Edenton’s claim to fame, Jesse Jameson Williams.’”

“How did the two of you ever meet up again?” Oliver asked the question I was wondering.