Decker started up the stairs, Michael at his heels. “Detective Oliver is right, son. You don’t want to do that.”

Michael said, “And why’s that?”

“Ask your brother Bram. Bet he knows.”

As Decker opened the door to the master bedroom, he was instantly attacked by a pair of burning green eyes. Bram was kneeling in front of his seated mother, his hands clasped around hers, a hunk of shiny metal between their interlaced fingers.

A Beretta semiautomatic.

Decker stopped at the threshold. With a hand signal, he told everyone behind him to halt. But Michael paid no attention, storming past Decker.

“He just barged his way in, Bram. I—”

Abruptly, Michael stopped talking when he noticed the gun. Eyes darting back and forth. Quietly, he asked, “What’s going on, Bram?”

The room fell quiet. A cavernous place in beige and white, eerily lit by a couple of reading lamps posted on either side of the king-sized bed. In the corner was a desk piled high with papers. The drapes had been drawn—old, ecru things—worn and frayed.

Dressed in a flowing caftan, Dolly Sparks looked at her youngest son, then returned her eyes to her lap. She was seated in a cream-colored wing chair, her shoulders hunched, her hair bedraggled. Bram was in his usual black garb. His voice was soft…controlled. He directed his words to Decker.

“She’s suicidal. Can you please leave?”

Decker whispered to Marge to call for backup. Oliver placed himself at Decker’s side, but kept the door wide open.

Bram said, “Please, Lieutenant. A tragedy serves no purpose.”

The priest’s face held a sweaty sheen. Decker said, “I can’t leave you two alone, Father. Not as long as she has a weapon.”

Bram said, “Do you have an arrest warrant?”

“No.”

“Then please go.”

“Under these circumstances, I can’t. I’d be negligent in my duties if I did.”

“You’re hearing privileged conversation. You cannot use it against her. Because she wants a lawyer.”

Michael said, “Should I call Mr. Waterson, Bram?”

“No, don’t do that.” To Decker, Bram said, “Do you hear what I’m saying? She wants a lawyer. A real lawyer.”

“I understand.” Decker paused. “So she told you everything. Or maybe you figured it out after Decameron was murdered—”

“What difference does it make?”

Tears ran down Dolly’s face, her fingers gripping the gun. “They’re coming for me, aren’t they? They’re going to take me away—”

“Please, Lieutenant,” Bram was pleading. “If you won’t leave, at least don’t make matters worse.” He held his mother’s hands, pointing the gun away from her stomach. “Mom, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be there for you. You know that—”

“It’s too late,” she sobbed.

“No, it’s not too late. Never lose faith, Mom. You taught me that.”

“Did I?”