By the time we reach the Garden District, the light is fading. Here on the high ground the houses have power, and as the lights come up, it’s easy to tell myself that the storm had never happened. But then the wind changes, and I catch the funk of rotting wood and black mold.

To my surprise, Dolores St. Denis lives in a mansion only two blocks from St. Charles Avenue, on Dufossat Street. Set behind ivy-covered brick walls, the cream-colored three-story château is fronted with pine trees, and heavy wrought iron spans the spaces between all the columns.

We use an intercom to announce ourselves, and Mrs. St. Denis herself buzzes us inside. When the huge cypress door opens, I find myself looking at a remarkably striking woman in her midsixties. As expected, her features are almost entirely Caucasian—far more so than Serenity’s—but there’s a subtle darkness to her skin that no one who knew her background would mistake for a suntan. When she speaks to introduce herself, her diction is not only perfect but refined, and I know with certainty that this woman could “pass” for white in any environment she chose.

“I’ve gone by Dee for decades now,” she says, leading us deeper into the house, which is furnished with a mixture of antiques and modern pieces. “But you may call me Dolores. I rather like hearing it again, actually.”

“What does your husband do?”

“Maurice was an executive for an insurance company. He passed away three years ago. I’m alone now.”

She seats herself in a burgundy velvet chair, then motions for Serenity and me to sit on a low-slung sofa that looks like a Roche Bobois.

“Mr. Cage, I agreed to see you because of your father. When I was in a very dark place, he tried to help me. He really tried. But I was beyond help at that time.”

“I appreciate that. It’s my father who’s in serious trouble now. Anything you can tell us might help him considerably. I know that your—your time in Mississippi was very difficult. And I’m sorry to have to ask you about it.”

Dolores St. Denis folds her hands in her lap, then looks up at me with startling intensity. “Mr. Cage, I know you were once a lawyer. Do you have any experience with violent crime?”

“A great deal, ma’am. I was an assistant district attorney in Houston for eight years. I worked the most violent cases that came through our office. Gang murders, serial killers, everything.”

“Sexual assault? Gang rapes?”

“That, too, I’m sorry to say. Group assaults on both women and men.”

She sighs and shakes her head, and I notice that her hair is very straight and fine. “Then you have some idea of what I was trying to deal with back then.”