Ronnie had walked out of the motel in Kentucky at five-fourteen a.m.

He set foot in Heath, Ohio—less than five miles outside Cedar Hill—at nine-thirty-five.

He allowed himself to feel relief only for a minute, and then he had not one, but two problems to deal with: 1) making sure that he didn’t run into any members of his family once he got into town, and, most importantly, 2) finding the lady whose name he couldn’t remember and correcting his mistake.

Correcting the part that could still be corrected, that is.

He took a deep breath, made himself aware of the silver thread, and began following it.

Ronald James Williamson and Lucy Thompson were about to meet for the second time.

Interlude: The Hangman

11:00 p.m.

1

Grant McCullers looked across the bar at Sheriff Ted Jackson, who was shaking his head as he and the Reverend exchanged unreadable glances.

“Am I missing something here?” asked the man they were still referring to as “Henry.”

“No,” said the Reverend. “It’s just…well you must admit, you’re offering certain details that some might construe as…that is, I mean to say—”

“You’re telling us stuff there’s no way you could know,” said Jackson.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Grant.

Jackson looked at him. “First of all, I need a refill on the popcorn and my soda, and, second—you wouldn’t be so sure of what?”

Grant smiled as he refilled Jackson’s Pepsi. “I’m just saying, we shouldn’t be trying to poke holes in the story until we’ve heard the entire thing.” He gestured to the long shelf of knickknacks that ran the length of the bar. “Pick any item from up there—say, that busted guitar neck—and try to tell the story behind it and see how you’d feel if someone stopped you halfway through to start nitpicking about what you could have known or what you couldn’t have. Anybody’d sound crazy if you stopped them halfway through.”

Henry looked up at the shelf. “So you’re saying that everything on that shelf has got a story behind it? A story like mine?”

“There is no story like yours,” replied the Reverend. “Each one is unique. Some more so than others.”

“Like that busted guitar neck? Or that model ship and lighthouse?” asked Henry.

“You’d have to hear the stories first and then judge for yourself.”

“Oh.”

Grant set two fresh bowls of popcorn between everyone, made sure all had fresh drinks, poured himself another cup of coffee, and took his seat once again. “Have we gotten to the part yet where the doctors usually pull out their prescription pads and start scribbling away?”

Henry tried smiling and almost made it this time. “Depends on which doctor.”

“Ah.”

“So you guys…you don’t think I’m nuts?”

Jackson shook his head. “I haven’t had my yo-yo alarm go off yet. You two?”

“I’m going to pretend that question was never even asked,” said the Reverend.

Jackson put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Look, it’s not that I don’t believe you, okay? I’m just—I mean, c’mon, look at me! I wear a badge, y’know? It’s a force of habit to look for holes in someone’s story. If I do it again, ignore me. Or you could do what my wife did and leave. But I hope you finish the story first.”