I ring the doorbell and then step back and stand with my hands clasped in front of me, like a pastor making a house call. My head is buzzing now, the way a performer must feel just before the lights dim and she takes the stage. I’m acutely aware of the two holstered pistols beneath my jacket, the yellowed light from the bulb over the front porch, the distant sounds of traffic, the scuffed red paint on the front door. I’m ready for whatever is behind that door.

It opens. A woman stands there, Black and older, with gray hair and glasses, a woman who might have been called big-boned when she was younger and has now shrunk some but without losing much if any of her dignity. “Yes?” she says.

I have some options here. One, demand to see Peaches. Two, take the old woman hostage. Three, play dumb. Four, make up a story about who I am and why I need to see Peaches.

Instead, I smile. “Good evening, ma’am,” I say. “My name is Susannah Faulkner. Are you Mrs. Daniels?”

“I am.” Her expression does not change.

“I was hoping to talk with your son, Antoine.”

“Are you the police?” the woman asks.

I suppress a laugh. “No, ma’am, I am most definitely not.”

“Do you sell drugs?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

She considers me with the same implacable expression. “Why do you want to speak to my son?”

While my voice remains pleasant, I can hear the strain underneath. I wonder if she can hear it too. “It’s about my uncle,” I say. “Gavin Lester.”

Mrs. Daniels stares back at me for a beat. Somewhere a few blocks over, a dog begins to bark. Mrs. Daniels sighs. “I suppose you should come on in, then,” she says, and she turns and walks into the house, leaving the door open for me.

IF ANYONE TRIED to swing a cat in Mrs. Daniels’s living room, they would damage a lot of ferns and plastic-covered furniture. Mrs. Daniels brings out a tray of iced tea and places it on a glass coffee table before settling into a white leather BarcaLounger. The chair is situated under a windowsill that’s teeming with ferns, which give her a leafy green corona. I sit across from her on a floral-print couch, the plastic squeaking beneath me, and keep an eye on the front door.

“Antoine doesn’t live here,” Mrs. Daniels says. “Hasn’t for years.”

“But I bet he stops by often to check in on you,” I say. “Just like I bet someone in the neighborhood has already told him you’ve got a visitor. Probably one of the men hiding in the empty lot across from your house. Right now your son is probably wondering who this White girl is that’s bothering his mama.”