Turner is filled with the accreted anger of thirty-seven years. And by the circular logic of every bastard son in history, he’s transformed supposition into “facts” to prove he’s the son of a great man. Arguing this point with him would be like arguing with a convert about religion. I should get out of here as quickly and quietly as possible.

While I try to think of a graceful excuse to leave, he takes a bite of pulled pork and speaks as he chews. “Now that you understand the situation, the idea of murder doesn’t seem so far-fetched, does it?”

“That’s ridiculous. Killing Viola wouldn’t keep your existence secret, if that’s what you’re implying. Dad would have to kill everyone else who knew, as well.”

“Almost nobody did.” Lincoln finishes chewing, then swallows and watches me for a few seconds, seeming to enjoy my discomfiture. “But by the other night, he knew that I knew.”

“So, killing your mother wouldn’t keep the alleged secret.”

“It would, if he killed me, too.”

I draw back from him in shock. “You’re not seriously suggesting …?”

Lincoln shrugs. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

I try to keep my face immobile.

“Uh-huh. What do you think I’m doing out in this dump? I can afford to eat at the Castle if I want to. But I can’t show my face in Natchez until Tom Cage is in jail. Even then, I can’t be sure I’m safe. He’s got plenty of redneck patients who’d be happy to do him a favor by making me disappear.”

I shove my chair back from the table. “You’re crazy. What do you really hope to get out of this?”

“Justice. Plain and simple.”

I have a practiced eye at reading deception, and there’s something more than sincerity in Lincoln Turner’s eyes. He radiates the cool certainty of a con artist rather than the sincerity of a wronged child. For an instant I feel I’m on the verge of a revelation, but the insight fades. Instead of trying to recapture it, I voice a question that’s been nagging me since Shad called Monday morning with the news of Viola’s death.

“Why were you thirty minutes north of Natchez on the morning your mother died? Why haven’t you been here for the past month, while she was dying? You’re about to be disbarred in Illinois. And you just told me you have enough money to stay at a nice hotel. Why weren’t you down here easing her last weeks on earth? Why were you sitting up in Chicago while your mother suffered at death’s door?”

He has no ready answer for this, and the anger in his eyes deepens appreciably.