“Will you!” Can’t help herself, Katie is an older sister. And you—

Violet Rue.

But Katie rouses herself, to help you pack. Though there is little to do, you have brought so few things. Telling you it would be a much better idea to drive in the morning, in daylight, when you are not so upset . . .

To this, you make no reply. Katie scarcely knows how upset you are.

But what about Lionel?—Katie has not asked.

And so you will wonder, Does Katie know? How much does Katie know? You assure yourself: Katie could not have guessed how dangerous your brother is, or she would not have arranged for you to spend time with him alone.

Our brother is a murderer. He is not the person you want to think he is.

“Oh, Violet. I feel like—like I have failed you. . . . Forgive me.”

“Hey. Forgive me.”

Katie begins to cry. You hug your sister, pressing your hot face against her neck. So much to tell her. But no, not now. Now is not the time.

Howard Street

DRIVING ALONG SPARSELY INHABITED DELAHUNT ROAD. ON your way out of South Niagara, to the Thruway headed east.

Gas station, fast-food restaurant, auto dealership, remnants of a trailer park, open fields. A potholed road, wide rutted shoulder where (you recall) Hadrian Johnson was bicycling when your brother Jerome, Jr. steered his car at him . . .

But where, you aren’t so sure. Possibly, you never knew.

Amsterdam Street, where Hadrian’s grandmother had lived. Howard Street, where Hadrian’s mother, Ethel Johnson, lived. Lives?

North along Delahunt, searching for Howard Street. You’d thought that Howard Street was here, intersecting with Delahunt, but the street signs are unfamiliar, and not all the streets are marked . . . Not sure what to do for you have passed at least two (unpaved) streets without signs, either of which could be Howard. This is a part of South Niagara you don’t know, miles from Black Rock Street and the Niagara River—Where colored people live.

As your mother might’ve said, carefully. Or your father.

Any of the Kerrigans. Any of the white people you’d known.

Though not your grandfather Kerrigan, he’d have uttered a harsher term . . .

Might be best to drive a little farther, if you don’t see Howard then make a U-turn. Not much traffic on Delahunt at this time of day.

At last, you see a sign for Howard Street—you think. But closer up, you see Powell.

Finally at the city limit you make a U-turn in the road, return. But this time you have no better luck. The Honda Civic is an economy car without a tracking system. Your cell phone is a rudimentary model—only just a phone. You feel shy about turning onto one of these streets where small bungalow-type houses are set in surprisingly large lots, at the edge of the city.