“I did. I am not proud of it now, but I did.” Miss Hamer gave a long, trembling sigh and her thin fingers fluttered. “And I reckon he decided to do like I said. He went off to see your daddy that night and never came home, not even to get his clothes. I reckon he was ashamed of lettin’ himself be bought off, which is why he didn’t say good-bye or write to either of us. He was ashamed. Ashamed of takin’ your daddy’s money to jilt your daddy’s daughter.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bessie said fiercely, balling up her fists. “I can believe that my father might’ve offered . . . something. But I can’t believe Harold took it! He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!”

“Dead,” Miss Hamer muttered. “Your daddy dead ten years, and I never knew.” She licked her lips. “All that hatin’, all that time. Wasted.” She dropped her head into her hands and began to weep. After a moment, she lifted her head and began to beat her balled hands against her breasts, and then to shriek. Long, agonized shrieks that made Bessie want to cover her ears.

The old black woman hurried in. “Best you go now, Miz Bloodworth.” She bent over and put her arms around the shaking woman. “There, there, now, honey,” she crooned, rocking her. “I’ll git you some o’ dat ol’ Miles Nervine Miss Nona Jean bought for you. It’ll be all right. It’ll be jes’ fine.”

Bessie was about to step off the front porch when the front door opened behind her.

“Miss Bloodworth, please.”

Bessie turned, startled. At first she didn’t quite believe her eyes, but she knew it had to be true. It was Miss Jamison, a print scarf tied around her brown hair. She was wearing a shapeless gray cotton housedress that must have once belonged to Miss Hamer, felt bedroom slippers, and not a trace of makeup. She looked, Bessie thought, like a sharecropper’s wife.

“What happened at the beauty parlor today—” Miss Jamison raised her voice, to be heard over Miss Hamer’s anguished cries. “I hope it won’t go any further, Miss Bloodworth. I don’t want the whole town gossiping about me. Or about Miss Lake, either. As it is, the poor thing is so distraught that she can’t sleep. I tried to get her some of her Veronal, but the druggist refused to fill her prescription.”

Bessie hadn’t meant to tell this, but maybe it would relieve Miss Jamison’s mind. “If you’re worrying about Frankie Diamond, you can stop right now. Deputy Norris put him on the train back to Chicago earlier this afternoon.”

“He—what?” Miss Jamison’s hand went to her mouth. “Are you sure? How do you know?”