“Yes, ma’am.” My next words are an irrevocable step. “I’ve decided to look into Del’s death after all. I’ve already taken some steps in that direction.”

She seems not to have understood. Then her eyes well up and her voice spills out in a reverent tone. “Sweet Lord Jesus, I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves. There may not be anything to find out.”

She nods, her hands clasped over her chest. “I realize that. I just . . . it’s been so many years. Do you have any idea what you need to charge me?”

“Yes. I’m going to need a retainer of one dollar. And I’ll bill you for my time at the rate of one dollar per day.”

She shakes her head in confusion. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious, Althea. Don’t give it another thought.”

She wipes tears from her eyes, and I look away. The wall to her left holds the sacred trinity of photographs I’ve seen in the homes of many black families: Martin Luther King, JFK, and Abraham Lincoln. Sometimes you see Bobby, or FDR. But the Paytons have only the big three. A plastic clock hangs above the photographs, its face painted with a rather bloated likeness of Dr. King. The words I HAVE A DREAM appear in quotes beneath him.

“Georgia bought that clock from some traveling salesman in May of 1968,” Althea says. “It stopped running before that Christmas, but she never let me get rid of it.”

“Maybe it’s a collector’s item.”

“I don’t care. Those clocks probably put a million dollars in some sharpie’s pocket.” She grips her knees with her palms and fixes her eyes on me. “Could I ask you one thing?”

“Why did I change my mind?”

“Yes.”

“I have a personal stake in the case now. I want to be honest with you about that.”

“Are you going to write a book about Del? Is that it?”

“No. But if anybody asks you what I was doing here, that’s what you tell them. And I mean anybody, police included. Okay?”

“Whatever you say. But what is your personal interest, if not a book?”

“I’d prefer to keep that to myself, Althea.”

She looks puzzled, then relieved. “I’m glad you’ve got a stake in it. You having a child like you do. It would be too hard if I thought you were taking this risk only for me.”

“I’m not. Rest assured of that.”

“Thank you.” She leans back in her chair and looks at me with apprehension. “What can you tell me? Have you learned anything yet?”

“We won’t be getting any help from the district attorney. The police either, if my guess is right. I’ve managed to obtain some documentary information dating back to 1968 that could be helpful, but that’s between us and God.”