“I met both her brothers at an Alabama football game. Roosevelt Harvin isn’t a guy you forget. He played defensive tackle. The oldest brother didn’t play college ball, but the dad played at Mississippi Valley State.”

“Are they coming to Natchez?”

Jamie nods. “The brothers are. The dad’s sick, apparently. They should be here late tonight. Early tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“This is going to be so bad. She may die, Jamie.”

His face goes pale. “What?”

“It has to do with the type of acid. It screws up your calcium and causes potentially fatal systemic problems.”

“Oh . . . fuck, man.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. Look, I need to get going.”

I start to leave, but Jamie appears to be in shock. He’s shaking his head like I’ve just told him the world is about to end.

“Keisha’s special,” he says. “You know? Fearless. Pure. Somebody’s going to pay for hurting that girl, I’m telling you.”

“If they ever find out who did it.”

“I’m not talking about the cops.”

“Don’t talk crazy,” I tell him, echoing Kaiser.

“I’m not talking about myself. I mean her brothers.”

I shake my head. “That wouldn’t help Keisha any. But take it from me, as a former prosecutor. Relatives swear they’re going to kill the perps in these situations all the time, but they almost never do.”

“Really? Why is that?”

The fifteen years of difference between the newspaper editor and me suddenly seems an eternity. “Because the terrible truth is, all anyone accomplishes by doing that is getting himself sent to prison. I’ve seen it happen.”

Jamie thinks about this. “Well. I hope that’s enough to settle the Harvin brothers down. But I wouldn’t count on it. Are you coming back later?”

“I’ll be back. You keep your eyes open, Jamie. Your name’s on the website, too.”

The editor nods, then sets off again, slowly meandering toward the hospital entrance.

Climbing into my Audi, I start the engine, then switch on the AC and sit with my face near the central vents until my skin feels cold.

Will Keisha Harvin ever feel that again? I wonder.

Closing my eyes, I reach out and turn on the CD player by touch. Soon the cabin fills with “Capriccio Primo,” a solo cello piece played to perfection by Elinor Frey. As she bows the heavy strings, my pulse slows and my blood pressure falls. But deep within me, something like a motor has begun spooling up. I recognize the feeling now, from the day I heard Caitlin speaking from the grave, on the last recording she made before she died.

The day I killed Forrest Knox.