Marino was not particularly interested in the surviving horse, and as we entered the indoor ring, we were greeted by the sound of hooves and the clucking of bantam roosters and guinea hens that wandered about freely. Marino coughed and squinted because red dust was thick in the air, kicked up by the cantering of a chestnut Morgan mare. Horses in their stalls neighed and whinnied as horse and rider went by, and although I recognized Kenneth Sparkes in his English saddle, I had never seen him in dirty denim and boots. He was an excellent equestrian, and when he met my eyes as he went by, he showed no sign of recognition or relief. I knew right then he did not want us here.

“Is there someplace we can talk to him?” I asked Foster.

“There are chairs outside.” She pointed. “Or you can use my office.”

Sparkes picked up speed and thundered toward us, and the guinea hens lifted up their feathery skirts to hurry out of the way.

“Did you know anything about a lady maybe staying with him in Warrenton?” I asked as we headed back outside again. “Did you ever see anyone when you went to work with his horses?”

“No,” Foster said.

We picked plastic chairs and sat with our backs to the arena, overlooking woods.

“But Lord knows, Kenny’s had girlfriends before, and I don’t always know about them,” Foster said, turning around in her chair to look back inside the ring. “Unless you’re right about Windsong, the horse Kenny’s on now is the only one he has left. Black Opal. We call him Pal for short.”

Marino and I did not respond as we turned around to see Sparkes dismount and hand the reins to one of Foster’s stable hands.

“Good job, Pal,” Sparkes said, patting the horse’s handsome neck and head.

“Any special reason this horse wasn’t with the others on his farm?” I asked Foster.

“Not quite old enough. He’s a barely three-year-old gelding who still needs training. That’s why he’s still here, lucky for him.”

For a flicker, her face was contorted by grief, and she quickly looked away. She cleared her throat and got up from her chair. She walked away as Sparkes came out of the arena adjusting his belt and the fit of his jeans. I got up and Marino and I respectfully shook his hand. He was sweating through a faded red Izod shirt, and he wiped his face with a yellow bandanna he untied from his neck.

“Please sit down,” he graciously said, as if he were granting us an audience with him.

We took our chairs again, and he pulled his out and turned it around to face us, the skin tight around eyes that were resolute but bloodshot.