“I came to find out why you’re trying to railroad my father for murder.”

He shakes his head with confidence. “That’s no mystery. What son wouldn’t want vengeance on the man who killed his mama? That’s logic, plain and simple. No, Mr. Mayor … you’re here to answer a deeper question. And you’re scared.”

“What were you doing parked outside my house an hour ago?”

Lincoln shrugs. “It’s a free country, ain’t it?”

“Oh, cut the shit. What ‘deeper question’ am I here to answer?”

He seems to weigh the issue for a bit. “You ever hear that expression, ‘brothers from a different mother’?”

My stomach does a slow flip. “I’ve heard it.”

“That’s what we are.” He grins, showing his big teeth. “You and me. Literally. We got the same father.” His eyebrows arch expectantly. “Ain’t that some shit, Mayor?”

“I don’t believe you.” I’m speaking truthfully, despite my doubts about my father’s honesty.

“Yes, you do. The truth is already there, down deep in you. All I did was pick off the scab. Take a minute to adjust, if you need it. Nobody’s going to ask for our table.”

“What year were you born?” I ask.

“Nineteen sixty-eight, in December. Nine months after my mama left Natchez.”

I’m reluctant to raise Henry Sexton’s explanation of this juxtaposition of events, but what choice do I have? Lincoln has forced my hand.

“A lot of terrible things happened to your mother and her family in 1968,” I say in a neutral tone. “Her brother was kidnapped and murdered, for one thing. Viola had several good reasons to leave this town.”

“None measure up to being pregnant by her white, married boss. A man she loved, but who would never leave his wife.”

This simple, vivid description stops me for a few moments, but I press on. “Something else happened in 1968, Mr. Turner. Something a lot worse than what you just described.”

“What’s that, Mayor?”

“Your mother was raped by the Ku Klux Klan. Or several former members of it, anyway.”

The dark eyes smolder with anger. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I don’t know what you know.”

Lincoln stabs a thick forefinger at me. “You think I was sired by one of them cracker assholes?”

“I don’t know. It seems possible.”

Lincoln’s chest rumbles with contemptuous laughter. “You wish I was, don’t you? You and your daddy. That would make your lives a whole lot easier. Keep that fairy tale you was raised in intact. But I told you that first night who I am. I’m the chicken come home to roost. It’s taken damn near forty years, but I’m here now. Here to stay. And I know what I know. I had to break through a lot of lies to find out, but now I know.”