“How much to stop this ridiculous intrusion into my son’s death? I assume money is what this is about?” She searched my face, no expression on hers. “I’ve shocked you, it appears. I’m a forthright woman. We’re both adults. Let’s not be coy. It’s always about money, so give me your figure.”

I watched her. I could tell she was used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it, and cost was obviously no consideration. How many people did her bidding? I wondered. Felton, obviously. Boykin, assuredly. Stephen? Tim? Money could buy a lot of things—fealty, silence, protection, love, or its facsimile—but not me.

I stood. “I guess that would depend on how much you’d pay to see your son’s killer go free.”

She looked up at me. “My son was weak. He killed himself, bringing shame on our family. Those are the facts. Now, name a figure or I will terminate this meeting and let things take their natural course. But before you speak again, know this. I’m very rarely denied satisfaction. I’ve grown quite accustomed to getting what I want.”

I nodded, holding her gaze. “Not today. Not with me.”

She drew back as though I’d cuffed her on the chin.

“Where were you the night Tim died?” I asked. “When you heard your son, your boy, was dead?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t so much as blink.

“All right, then, I’ll just talk. I believe Tim might have been killed because he lived too long. Even as I’m saying it, it sounds bizarre, completely sick.” I drew closer to her, and she moved farther back in the chair. It was as far away from me as she could get. “I’ve found a con man who was keeping pretty close tabs on Tim. I think it had something to do with his insurance policy. I believe Tim trusted someone who took advantage of him at his lowest point, and then betrayed him. I don’t have evidence yet to prove that theory, but if there is any, I’ll find it.”