I punched the intercom button on the Ayers gate at five to ten the next morning, but before I could announce myself, the gate slid quietly open and the same high-brow voice I’d spoken to my first visit instructed me to pull in and follow the winding driveway up to the main house. I expected the trip to be short, but the drive kept going, past leafy trees and manicured bushes, past luscious flowers in full bloom. Suddenly the enchanted forest cleared and I hit a circular drive layered in oyster pebbles, a working fountain in its center, the gravel popping and crunching under my city tires. Before I even had time to come to a full stop under the Ayerses’ stark white portico, front doors wide enough to get a Chevy truck through opened. A stiff-looking man stepped out and stood waiting, statuelike, beside a large Grecian column. His hands by his side, his eyes tracking my every move, he registered nothing on his long, gaunt face. He looked old, really old, but he stood straight, his black suit freshly pressed, his hard-soled shoes shined to a fare-thee-well. I’d worn jeans and was likely way underdressed, but I didn’t much care. I was here for information, not to impress anybody.

I met the old man at the portico, besting him by a few inches. “Good morning, Ms. Raines. I’m Boykin. Follow me, please?” He swept a thin arm toward the doors, not bothering to look back to see if I was following along. I was, but not before pressing my key fob to engage the alarm on my car. I was a city girl. I didn’t know these people.

I was led along an immaculate marble floor glossy enough to see my reflection in, until Boykin stopped at another set of double doors. “Mrs. Ayers will join you in the library. Please make yourself comfortable.”