As I try to banish this thought, one of the saner supervisors suggests that we should suspend discussion of the slave market and move on to the intentional flooding of St. Catherine’s Creek, which flows through the middle of Natchez, but she’s instantly shouted down. Apparently even the problems of eminent domain pale next to those involving race.

When my cell phone vibrates on the table yet again, two selectmen glare at me, almost daring me to check the LCD. Leaning forward, I see Caitlin’s name.

“Just tell me this!” snaps a supervisor. “If this is such an all-fired great idea, why hasn’t somebody on the South Carolina coast started rebuilding slave ships? Huh? Tell me that!”

Caitlin’s text message reads:

Call me NOW. Urgent!

Lifting my left hand in apology, I say, “Excuse me again, ladies and gentlemen. Family emergency.” With a screech of chair legs, I get to my feet and decamp to the anteroom, where I speed-dial Caitlin.

“Are you alone?” she asks, her voice quavering.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I just killed somebody.”

My chest goes so tight that my next breath takes conscious effort. “What do you mean? With your car?”

“No. I just interviewed Brody Royal’s daughter, Katy Regan.”

“What?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just felt that I couldn’t write the story without at least trying to talk to her.”

My intimate knowledge of Caitlin’s ambition fills me with foreboding. “What did you do?”

“I ambushed her. I know it was wrong, but it was the only way. Henry had interviewed her about Pooky before, and it hadn’t upset her, so I figured it was okay. She let me into her house quite happily—”

“Jesus. You know Randall Regan is a killer.”

“I know. Please just listen. She seemed fine with it, seriously. Even when I told her why I was really there. I figured she might be ready open up to another woman, you know?”

Cold dread closes around my heart. “What happened, Caitlin?”

“It went fine for a while, and then she passed out right in front of me. She’d taken an overdose of pills before I got there.”

“Is she alive?”

“She’s in a coma at St. Catherine’s Hospital.”

I blow out a rush of air and force myself to start breathing again. “Caitlin, you—”

“I know,” she says again. “I should have told you.”

“No, you should have waited. Christ, this is a disaster.”

“Not totally.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d rather not say anything on the phone. I’m almost outside the Selectmen’s Building. Can you come out and talk for a second?”

I feel like screaming at her, but that’s not going to solve anything. And if she knows anything that can mitigate this tragedy, I need to hear it. “How close are you?”

“I’ll be out front in twenty seconds.”