“The Beedons,” said Mr. Sibley, “were deacons in the church. I met them the one Sunday I attended. They’d had me over for dinner. They got an anonymous phone call about the fire, and they drove down and asked if they could take me in while things were sorted out. That’s the phrase people used. While things were sorted out. What it meant was, while we figure out who wanted to burn you up and whether they’ll try again.”

Macey did not want to ask why he had gone to church only once. She did not want one more hard answer. “Austin wanted to know about your bare feet.”

“The junior-high faculty came through for me. The shoes were from a gym teacher, who brought two pairs. The music teachers scraped together all they could spare—in those days, teachers were paid very little—and took me shopping for clothing. The principal gave me a car that had been meant for his daughter, but the daughter said she didn’t need one as much as I did.”

She was swept by relief. “So some people helped.”

“Some people helped,” agreed Wade Sibley, “and I have a soft spot in my heart for them. But it wasn’t enough. All winter, I’d say to myself, Why am I teaching these kids? Why am I investing my life here? And there was no answer. I left, to teach elsewhere. I believe that the fire of December 1959 left a burn mark on me and on the town that has never been erased.”

“There is so much in this story!” Macey said. “Why didn’t you go public? You could have been a guest on every talk show in the world!”

“The talk show wasn’t invented yet. And the fire was public, Macey, and I could gauge reaction by looking at the neighbors. It was not a topic people wanted. That was the point of the fire. They wanted me and it—meaning race—to go away.”

She quit trying not to cry, and if some tears were over Austin and some were for herself, maybe that was okay. Mopping her face on her sleeve, she said, “The thing I really need you to tell me is, who set the fire?”

There was a long pause. Then Mr. Sibley said gently, “Macey, I have only guesses. No facts. We’re not going to know now, unless somebody confesses, and it’s clear from your research that nobody is going to. I think it would be best for you to forget about who did it.”

How terrible to be speaking with the only other person on earth who cared who set the fire—and to know what he was doing. Saving Macey from the truth.

It is my grandfather, thought Macey. Mr. Sibley wouldn’t bother otherwise.