I suppress a smile. Pithy Nolan has always been conscious that she was named for the priestess of the cave at Delphi. She’s the third Pythia in her family, and it’s long been said that the women in the maternal line possessed “second sight,” a colloquial term for the gift of prophecy. A hundred years ago, women in New Orleans and Baltimore quietly sought out her grandmother in matters involving family decisions, believing that she had foreknowledge of the future. Pithy has told me of cases where she predicted the illnesses or deaths of certain people.

As Flora pads into the room, I reflect on the irony of a woman of rigorous intellect believing in the idea of precognition.

“Flo,” Pithy says. “Go down the hall to that cabinet where I keep my old jewelry and look in the bottom drawer. Bring me what’s folded up in tissue paper at the back. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes. I’ll get it.”

Flora gives me a curious look as she departs, but I can’t read her meaning.

“I knew Albert Norris,” Pithy says dreamily. “That man had a way with white people. In those days, colored men would stand off and let whites get comfortable before they approached. Albert didn’t do that. He didn’t have to. White people just naturally warmed to him. He was always in and out of white homes. Folks were mighty upset when he died. That went a long way toward turning people against the Klan across the river.”

“I’ve heard that. You just breathe, Pithy.”

“No … I want to talk. I’ve missed our little confabs.”

“Have you heard from your son lately?”

“Oh, Robby’s still up in Boston. He’ll never come back south again, except to bury me. He’ll sell Corinth off to some greedy carpetbagger.”

She chuckles to keep from crying, and then her eyes close. Time passes, marked by the soft rush of labored breathing, and then Flora silently appears beside me.

“I got it, Miss Pithy,” she whispers, as though hoping the old woman won’t hear her.

Pithy’s eyes blink, then open and focus on me. “Give it to Mayor Cage.”

Flora unfolds the tissue paper and hands me what appears to be a small straight razor with a sterling silver handle. I recognize the razor from seeing my father receive old-fashioned barbershop shaves as a boy, but also from more than one crime scene in Houston. Some older black and Mexican criminals tended to use them, and I knew cops who used straight razors as throw-down weapons, because they’re so easy to conceal.

“Brody Royal gave me that as a present when we were courting,” Pithy says, as though still shocked by the idea. “Can you imagine? He said it was for my protection. In case I ever got into a tight spot. Look at the engraving on the handle.”