Grace had a habit of not speaking unless it was essential, choosing a mere lift of the eyebrows instead. This never failed to make Macey cranky. “Don’t do that, Grace. You look like a doll whose battery ran down.”

Grace giggled. “I’m preparing for my Wall Street career. I feel sure that in high-finance circles, people do not waste time on frivolous speech when they could be making a zillion dollars that afternoon.”

“On the other hand, if you made a zillion dollars, you’d deserve a little frivolous speech.”

“Okay, okay. Ask me again.”

“Grace?”

“Mace?”

They’d been doing this for years, and it still made them smile.

“You will not believe this, Grace. Austin’s grandfather ordered him to order me to stop investigating.”

“I agree,” said Grace. “Drop 1959.”

“It’s got a grip on me.”

“Well, lift the wires off, like you do with your old fence,” snapped Grace. “Macey, I’m sorry about Venita and all that, but you’re getting as weird as those people who think if they find a parking space, some Greater Power made sure it was there. Some things just happen, Macey, and there’s no connection. Give it a rest.”

She’s right, thought Macey, I’m not resting. My mind is running around, trespassing, climbing between strands of barbed wire.

She tried to make her mind take a nap, kick off its running shoes and lie down on the sofa, but it didn’t.

“I have serious fanny fatigue sharing this chair with you,” said Grace. “Get up and go away.”

Macey folded Byron De La Beckwith slowly, reading his story again, until Grace took the sheet out of Macey’s hands, crushed it and threw it into one of the many wastebaskets. This room of electronic information was equally a room of wadded-up paper.

“Cut it out, Mace,” said her best friend in the softest voice Macey had ever heard her use. “Who do you think did this, anyway? You’ve been told! Somebody on Shell Road. And who lived on Shell Road then and who lives there now? This guy De La Beckwith goes to prison after thirty years. You want to send your own grandparents to jail? Or Austin’s?”

“It wouldn’t be like that,” said Macey, getting up now, giving her the whole chair. “Mr. Sibley didn’t get hurt or killed, so all it really is is an old barn fire. The police wouldn’t care after all these years.”

Grace stared at her. “Then why do you care, Mace?”

That afternoon, during the long bleak stretch before her parents got home, Macey ordered her mind to lie down and take a nap, but even her body would not take a nap. She was bolt upright on the bed, surrounded by her notes and her books and the barbed wire of her thoughts. When the phone rang, she hoped it was Austin.