“Keisha’s been sending me her stuff all along. Since before your fiancée was murdered. And I see a lot of parallels with my mother’s story in the relationship between Viola Turner and your father. And I see myself in Lincoln Turner, of course.”

“I can see that, at least in the abstract. But in your book, you made it sound like you’d put your quest for identity behind you. ‘Not every mystery has a solution,’ you said.”

Serenity’s gaze moves off of me. “Right. Well, on that point . . . there’s been a development.”

“What kind of development?”

“A candidate has come forward. For my paternity.”

This is the last thing I expected to hear. “Who is he?”

“A retired art professor in Philadelphia. He’s sixty-nine years old. He’s already offered to take a DNA test. I’m pretty sure he’s the guy.”

She’s speaking with cool detachment, but I don’t buy it. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’m not sure. He just contacted me last week. You read my book. I spent a lot of time up in Philadelphia, trying to trace who my father was. And I actually talked to this guy. He wasn’t one of my main candidates, but I did interview him. He denied even remembering my mother. I knew she’d been in one of his classes, I had the records. But he claimed he’d taught too many students to remember individuals.”

Having seen a photo of Charity Butler inside Serenity’s book, I doubted this. “Even those as striking as your mother? Doesn’t sound like any professor I ever had.”

Serenity clucks her tongue again, this time making it sound like a guilty sentence from a judge. “Exactly.”

“So why the change of heart after all this time?”

“Two reasons. First, his wife died.”

“Ahh. And the second?”

“Come on. I just won the National Book Award. I’m famous.”

“And he’s an academic.” I shake my head in disgust. “He wants the world to know that half your genes came from him.”

“You got it, Mayor. No heart involved. It’s all ego.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Haven’t made up my mind. I don’t really like the guy. But I suppose I want to see whether I can recognize what my mother saw in him. I didn’t the first time.”

“What about your own connection to him? Your future?”

Serenity’s mouth twists with deep displeasure. “That man’s not my father. My grandparents raised me. My aunts. Uncle Catfish. I don’t plan to get warm and fuzzy with my sperm donor.”

Sensing deeper anger in her voice, I decide to change the subject.

“That thing your uncle used to say about Mississippi blood. The strength in it. ‘Beat but not broke.’ Do you think he was only talking about black people?”