“She’s from Laurel, Peter. Other side of the state. Not a lot of interaction between Natchez and Laurel.”

He said nothing for a few moments. “Are you sure that’s it?”

I felt the sting of indignation. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, bro. Just give me a call tomorrow. And I’m sorry things are so tough. I’m praying for your father.”

“If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, that’s a no.”

I hit end and walked over to the lamp beside my desk. I had told Peter the truth about Laurel. I know a hell of a lot of people from Mississippi, but I don’t think I’ve ever known more than one from Laurel. Compared to Natchez, it’s like another planet over there.

As I stare at Serenity Butler’s photograph, Peter’s voice echoes in my mind. I read her book . . . It’s breathtaking.

I wasn’t lying when I told Peter things had been crazy around the time I was sent this galley. But was that really why I never got around to reading it? Jealousy is a powerful and stubborn emotion, and maybe the literary buzz that began as soon as this new writer’s manuscript began to circulate in New York had awakened that poisonous feeling in me. The critics had hailed Butler as a wunderkind, a raw new voice of realism on race, one that might someday rival that of Toni Morrison. That kind of hyperbole was sure to put off most veteran writers, and at forty-five, I am certainly a member of that club.

Almost resentfully, I flipped open the book, which revealed the dedication page. The dedication read: For my mother, who died bringing me into this world; and my father, whoever he might be.

I swallowed once, reread the lines, then turned the page.

I’m a big believer in first lines. If a writer doesn’t grab you with their first sentence, even in a literary novel, they might need to think about another line of work. As my eyes sought out the first line of Serenity Butler’s memoir, I realized she had a killer.

Not every child has a father, nor every mystery a solution.

When my eyes reached the period, I realized I wasn’t breathing. In eleven words, Serenity Butler had reached through my chest wall and tapped her fingernail against my heart, like an archaeologist searching for an echo. As my eyes retraced the line, I backed over to my Eames lounge chair, collapsed into it, adjusted the lamp, and began to read.

Friday
Chapter 10