The moment we left the Beacon office, I called a retired cop named James Ervin to set up security for Henry and his loved ones, but for the last few miles I’ve fought the urge to use my cell phone again. I don’t like making decisions in the heat of the moment, especially after absorbing an information dump like the one Henry laid on me tonight. In the span of sixty minutes, the reporter gave me the results of twenty years of painstaking investigation, and the full ramifications aren’t easy to grasp. For the time being, I don’t intend to try. What matters now is my father’s plight, and whether or not he’s willing to try to extricate himself from it. With a preparatory tensing of my stomach muscles, I dial Dad’s cell phone. He doesn’t answer until I’ve nearly despaired of getting him.

“Hello, Penn,” he says in a softer voice than usual.

“You told me to call you if Henry had any new information that was relevant. Well, he had a lot. We need to have a very different conversation than the one we had this afternoon.”

“Son … I can’t talk now. Peggy is upset.”

“I imagine she is, if you’ve just told her about this mess. Is she right there?”

“No, but close enough.”

“Hold the earpiece close to your head, then.” I lower my voice. “I’m going to ask you one question, and I want a yes-or-no answer. I need you to answer it, because before I can make a move, I need to know where you stand.”

“I will, if I can.”

“Will you take a DNA test to establish whether or not you are Lincoln Turner’s father?”

There’s a stunned silence. “Penn—”

“Yes or no, Dad. Please.”

More silence. I could have asked whether or not he’d fathered a child by Viola, or whether it’s even possible, but what would be the point? Though I’ve never known him to lie to me, in the end this question will only be answered by scientific evidence.

“I will,” he says at length.

My relief is palpable. Passing into Vidalia, I adjust my brights for oncoming traffic. “All right. I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Make it late, after Peggy’s asleep. Midnight.”

“Okay.”

I hit END and squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. I’m not even sure what his answer meant. But from a legal standpoint all that matters now is his willingness to take the test. Before I can second-guess myself, I call Shad Johnson’s cell phone. It rings several times, but just as I expect to be kicked to voice mail, the DA’s smooth voice comes on the line.

“I’ve been expecting you to call back all day.”

“My father didn’t kill Viola Turner.”

“Do you have exculpatory evidence I don’t know about?”