Luther repeated himself.

Mrs. Giddreaux sat in the chair across from him. “Tell me all of it.”

Luther told her about everything except the vault he’d built under the kitchen floorboards on Shawmut Avenue. Until he knew what McKenna intended it for, he wasn’t going to speak of it. As he talked, Mrs. Giddreaux’s kind, old face lost its kindness and lost its age, too. It grew as smooth and unmoving as a headstone.

When he finished, she said, “You’ve never given him a thing he could use against us? Never once played the rat?”

Luther stared back at her, his mouth open.

“Answer my question, Luther. This is no child’s game.”

“No,” Luther said. “I never gave him anything.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Luther didn’t say anything.

“He wouldn’t just get you under his thumb and not dirty you up a little bit in his filth with him. The police don’t work that way. He would have sent you in with something to plant here or at the new building, something illegal.”

Luther shook his head.

She looked back at him, her breaths coming soft and measured.

Luther shook his head again.

“Luther.”

Luther told her about the vault.

She looked at him with such pained confusion Luther wanted to jump out the window. “Why didn’t you just come to us the moment he approached you?”

Luther said, “I don’t know.”

She shook her head. “Don’t you trust anyone, son? Anyone?”

Luther kept his mouth shut.

Mrs. Giddreaux reached for the phone on her desk and tapped the cradle once, tucked her hair behind her ear as she placed the receiver to her ear. “Edna? Girl, send every typist you’ve got up to the main floor. Get them all in the parlor and the dining room. You hear? Right now. And tell them to carry those typewriters with them. Oh, and Edna? You have phone directories down there, don’t you? No, I can’t use Boston. You have Philadelphia? Good. Send that up, too.”

She hung up and tapped her fingers lightly off her lips. When she looked at Luther again, the anger was gone from her eyes, replaced by the shine of excitement. Then her face darkened again and those fingers stopped tapping.

“What?” Luther said.

“No matter what you bring him tonight, he may just have you arrested or shot.”

“Why would he do that?” Luther said.

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “Because he can. Let’s start there.” She shook her head slightly. “He’ll do it, Luther, because you got him the list. That’s not something you’ll be able to tell someone about from prison.”

“What if I don’t bring it?”

“Oh, then he’ll just kill you,” she said mildly. “Shoot you in the back. No, you’ll have to bring it.” She sighed.

Luther was still back at the “kill you” part.

“I’m going to have to call some people. Dr. Du Bois for starters.” Her fingers tapped her chin now. “Legal Department in New York, that’s for sure. Legal Department in Tulsa, too.”