Henry’s glass stopped at his lips, his look curious and reflective. He put down the drink. “Perhaps not. But I’ve known Kris Ann since she was a child, and the one thing I’m certain of is that she needs affection from someone other than her father. Do try not to get so involved in meeting Roland’s standards at the firm that she depends too much on him, or forgets that she married a different man. It’s you she needs.” He stopped, faintly embarrassed. “I apologize, Adam. I seem to be giving you too much advice, and all unasked.”

The whiskey was feeling warm and sudden in me. I waved a deprecating hand. “It’s appreciated, really. The firm isn’t the greatest place for candid chats—about Roland or anything else.”

He gave me a long sideways glance. “I suppose I’m a bit gun-shy, given our troubles with Jason. He’s at an age where he resents suggestion.”

His look and tone seemed strangely tentative, apologetic yet questioning. I decided he was in need of reassurance. “I was nineteen once, too,” I smiled. “I’m not now.”

“Then there’s hope. He seems so angry.”

“You’ll be astonished,” I said firmly.

His shy smile of relief was oddly touching. He reached suddenly to the shelf and took down The Mind of the South. “Let me give you a book. I think this might be good reading for a new southerner.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure?” I asked. “I worry about borrowing things.”

“I’ll trust you, Adam.” He held out the book with both hands. “Please, take it. Perhaps we can talk again when you’re through.”

I suppose it was then I first sensed that he was a lonely man. “Thank you,” I said. I took the volume from his hands.…

I lit a cigarette. “Where were you last night?” Rayfield asked him now.

Henry seemed not to hear. He sat in the middle of a partitioned room with shuttered lights overhead and one window with Venetian blinds slicing sunlight into ribbons on a gray tile floor. Cade and I flanked him, with Bast and Rayfield sitting on two desks in front of us. The stenographer, a young woman with straight black bangs, awaited his answer. I turned, trying to see him as Rayfield would. What I saw was a pallid man with skin almost papery, a ridged nose too large for his face, and crinkled lids that drooped to make triangles of his eyes. They were gray and wasted, and his face seemed drawn in upon itself, as if he had retracted an inch beneath the skin. His normal self showed only in ways that Rayfield might see as too fastidious but now were merely sad—small habits that, one by one, created order. His hair was combed, his suit pressed, and his shoes were shined. A white handkerchief pointed from his breast pocket.