‘Thank you.’ She smiles through tears of relief. ‘There’s just one other thing I need from you. Julius Gabriel had a journal. It was confiscated after Mick … disappeared. I want the twins to have it. I want them to be … prepared.’

Belle Glade, Florida 2:13 a.m.

Reverend Morehead hears the sounds of a baby crying as he reenters the sweltering stucco home. ‘Madelina?’

The heavyset midwife is in the kitchen, an infant in her arms. ‘Look. There’s your grandpa. Say hi, Grandpa!’

‘My Lord, will you look at his eyes, I’ve never seen eyes so blue.’

‘Silly, it’s not a he, she’s a little girl.’

‘A girl?’ Quenton feels the hairs rise along the back of his neck.

‘Where’s the father?’

‘Puking his guts up outside. Quickly, take the child and—’

The screen door slams open and Virgil approaches, a line of spittle running from his lower lip to his stained tee shirt, a ring of white powder visible in his left nostril. ‘Okay, le’ me see my boy.’

Quenton and the midwife exchange frightened looks. ‘Now Virgil—’

The minister steps in front of the wailing infant.

‘Outta my way, Quenton, I said I wanna see my son.’

‘Virgil, the Lord … the Lord has blessed you with a child. A daughter.’

Virgil stops. Facial muscles contort into a mask of rage. ‘A girl?’

‘Easy, son—’

‘A girl ain’t shit! A girl’s nuthin’ but another goddam mouth to feed and clothe and listen to her whining.’ He points at the screaming infant. ‘Give her to me!’

‘No.’ Quenton holds his ground. The nurse stands, preparing to flee with the child.

‘I want you to sober up, Virgil. I want you to go to my home and—’

Virgil punches the minister in the gut, dropping him to his knees.

The midwife tucks the infant under one arm, brandishing a kitchen knife in the other. ‘Ya’ll git outta here, Virgil. Go on!’

Virgil stares at the blade quivering in the fat woman’s fist. In one motion he grabs her wrist, wrenching the knife free.

The midwife screams, backing away.

Virgil stares at the infant, then hears Madelina moaning from inside the bedroom. ‘Damn no-good bitch …’ Leaving the kitchen, he ducks inside the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

‘Oh, Lord, oh, God—Quenton, get up! Get up, Quenton!’

The minister struggles to his feet as sounds of slapping flesh and Madelina’s screams fill the home. Quenton turns to the midwife. ‘Go! Take the child to the neighbors and call the police!’

The woman hurries out the back door.

Quenton bangs on the locked bedroom door. ‘Virgil? Virgil Robinson, you leave her be! You hear me?’

The screaming stops, the sudden silence deafening.

The minister backs away from the door and the approaching footsteps.

Virgil emerges, his white tee shirt splattered scarlet. He casts a hollow look at the minister, then stumbles into the night.