There were cries from the street. The red ball bounced onto the porch, followed by a small boy with large, hungry eyes and a head too big for his body. Lee threw it back underhand and watched the boy run away to his game. Without turning, he said, “You interrupted my peace. Go back where you belong.”

I shrugged, standing. “Thanks for your time.”

He didn’t look up. “You gonna chase the cops over here?” he asked in a bored, accusing tone.

“Nope. I figure they can find you themselves.”

I started to leave. “What you say your name was?” he demanded.

I turned. “Adam Shaw.”

He plucked a wrinkled pouch of chewing tobacco from his pants pocket and stuffed some in his cheek, chewing with a grinding slowness as he looked me up and down. “Well, Mr. Shaw, you been askin’ questions like you own this place and me with it. How long you figure I’d last doin’ that at white folks’ houses?”

The hatred in his eyes was impersonal and years deep. “Not long,” I answered, and walked back to the car.

I sat there thinking as Lee watched me from the porch. Then I drove toward Henry Cantwell’s, stopping at the library for the book on Grangeville.

Nine

NINE

When I got there the Cantwell place had lost its magic. The roses looked tired and the house too large and gloomy. It was like revisiting a place you hadn’t seen in years but remembered better than it was.

The thin woman who answered had coiffed and lacquered gray-blonde hair, thick glasses, and a bony face whose tension showed in the unnatural tightness of her mouth as she spoke. She was Mr. Cantwell’s sister, she said tersely. What did I want?

“I’m Adam Shaw. Henry’s lawyer.”

Her mouth relaxed slightly, showing age lines on her upper lip. “I thought you were another reporter.” Her tone was softer. “Your Kris Ann called just a while ago. She’s been very kind—both her and Roland.”

“We’re all concerned about Henry. How is he?”

She didn’t move from the doorway. Her glasses magnified eyes that even without them would have seemed large and nervous. “He’s as you would expect.”

“I didn’t know how bad that might be. Things got rough with the police yesterday.”

Her shoulders drooped. “He just watches, and you don’t know what he’s thinking.”

I nodded. She realized that I was still on the doorstep and motioned me inside. “I’m sorry,” she said distractedly. “The last day has been very hard. I’ve been worried over Henry and afraid that whoever killed Lydia might come back. If it weren’t for Roland …” She shook her head. “Even when I was small this house frightened me and now there’s this business with the police.”

“What business?”