“I was fifteen, and I’d been sleeping with this older girl from the public school who went off to junior college. I stole the family car a couple of times to go see her. In the kitchen one night my mother told me I couldn’t do that anymore. In my hormone-intoxicated state, I said, ‘Mom, why are you being such a bitch about this?’ ”

“Oh, my God.”

“My dad clocked me. This man of reason who had never lifted a finger to me slapped me an open-handed blow that damn near blacked me out. I was spiritually stunned. But it was the right blow at the right moment. The only one I ever needed. It drew the line for me.”

Caitlin nods slowly, a smile on her lips. “Thank you for telling me that. You’re lucky to have a father like that.”

I wonder what she’d say if she knew that an hour ago my wonderful father and I sank a murder weapon in a swamp.

Her barbecued ribs finally arrive, and we run through a half dozen other subjects while she eats. Journalism, my law career, publishing. She grew up with money but worked hard to make her own mark. She did internships with the New York Times and the Washington Post, traveled extensively overseas, and worked a year for the Los Angeles Times. When she asks obliquely about the Hanratty execution, I change the subject.

“Where do you live? I don’t picture you in an apartment.”

She smiles and wipes her mouth with a napkin, knowing I’m evading her question. “I pretty much live at the paper. But I did buy a house on Washington Street.”

“Roughing it, huh?” Washington Street is old Natchez; most of the town houses there sell for over three hundred thousand dollars.

“I need my space,” she says frankly. “You should come see it. It was completely restored just before I bought it.”

A wave of warmth passes over my face. Is she hinting that I should go to her house after dinner? I’ve been out of circulation for years, and she’s only twenty-eight. In the realm of dating, she is the expert, not me.

“Do you need to get home?” she asks. “I’ll bet Annie’s waiting up for you.”

That is what she’s suggesting. I look at my watch to conceal the fact that I’m blushing. “Annie’s falling asleep about now. I’m okay for a bit.”

“Well . . . would you like to see it? We could have some tea and talk. Or we could just take a ride. You could show me the real Natchez.”

In the dark? But the automatic rejections I’ve practiced since Sarah’s death don’t come to me. “A ride might be fun.”