“Oh, Mace!” he said, and he felt as if he were crumbling, a cliff falling into the sea. “I need my family. Maybe there’s still a chance to keep us going. Venita lost all her chances. Whatever she could have been—and you and I were there when she was full of hope, hope for her church and the sixes and Shakespeare—she lost her chances. I don’t know what Venita has given you, Mace. She gave me a calendar that could stop on any day of the week. Stop forever.” He did not attempt a hug. He did not try to soften it. He said, “I’m going home.”

The trumpets of a Masterpiece Theatre rerun were blaring, and Nana and Papa were happily involved with civilized Englishmen, magnificent country houses and splendid horses. “Papa,” said Macey. “Nana.”

“Macey,” said Nana, startled. “And Austin. Have you two been out on a date?”

Macey actually smiled. It was so far from what a date ought to be. It might earn a slot in her own personal life record book: the worst evening spent with a great guy.

“Not exactly. Would you look at this photograph?” She handed over the seventh shot. The fire illuminated the watchers as if there had been a multitude of flashbulbs. But you couldn’t tell what they were doing. Without context, they could have posed for any reason.

Nana and Papa slid together on the sofa, adjusting their bifocals and moving the photograph back and forth to focus on it.

“My goodness,” said her grandfather, smiling, “what memories that brings back! Where did you find this photo, Mace? This is many years ago. What’s going on? What are we all doing there?”

Papa’s smile tore at her heart. He was so sweet, such a teddy bear. But he was smiling at arson. “I thought you could tell me,” said Macey. “I know these are you two, and this is Austin’s grandfather. Who are the others?”

“Well, that’s Travis, somebody Travis, can’t think of his first name. And that’s, let me think, Philip Hammond, they must have left Shell Road forty years ago. Philip is dead, of course, but his wife remarried, she must be getting on in years. And this—I think this is the little Yinson girl. Yes, and her husband. I haven’t thought of the Yinsons in years. Now, what are they doing on our street? They lived across the creek, you know, on Brookside Drive.”

He dropped the photo and his face closed in. “This is the night of that silly fire. Did you go on researching it?” His voice was full of reproach, as if Macey had been drowning puppies.

He is angry with me? “It was set, Grandfather.” She had never called him anything but Papa. “It was arson. It was meant to kill Wade Sibley.”