Sometimes we think we are moving randomly. But random behavior is rare in humans. We are always spiraling around something, whether we see it or not, a secret center of gravity with the invisible power of a black hole. As a teenager, most of my “aimless” rides led me past Tuscany. Usually I would drive past the entrance, hoping to catch sight of Livy entering or leaving in her car. But a few times, at night, I would idle up the long driveway (it wasn’t gated then) and look up at her lighted window, staring at it like a caveman at a fire, then turn around and continue my endless orbit, a ritual that left me perpetually unsatisfied but which I was powerless to stop.

After Ruby’s funeral, I circumnavigate the county on its back roads, hurtling along gravel lanes with Kelly in my wake, driving his rented Taurus. Like a planet and its moon, we circle the town and the mystery that lies at the heart of it. Often the act of driving acts as a catalyst that allows the information banging around in my subconscious to order itself in a new way.

Today is different.

Today the emotional fallout from the funeral will not dissipate. Reverend Nightingale’s portrayal of my “unselfish” motives shamed me in a way I’ve never felt before. As he stood there praising me, I felt like a soldier who ran from battle being mistakenly awarded a Silver Star. At the other extreme was my anger at Shad Johnson, who hijacked Ruby’s funeral for his own political ends. And yet, if I were black, his suggestion that I retract my charges against Marston would make sense. My public statements may already have frightened liberal whites who might have voted for Shad into casting their ballots for Wiley Warren and the status quo.

After an hour of driving, the secret heart of my troubled orbit finally reveals itself. For the past week I’ve been acting like a writer. I was a prosecutor for twice as long as I’ve been a novelist, and I should have been thinking like one. At least my hands know where to take me, if my brain doesn’t. I’m on the Church Hill road, less than a mile from Ray Presley’s trailer. When I pull off beside the dilapidated structure, Kelly parks behind me, gets out, and jogs up to my window.

“What’s up, boss? Who lives here?”

“The man who killed Del Payton. I think he killed Ruby too.”

Kelly winces. “And what are we doing here?”

“What I should have done days ago.”

He squints and looks up the two-lane road. “I didn’t sign on to kill anybody. Or to watch it done.”

“I’m just going to talk to him.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “That sounds an awful lot like, ‘I’m just going to put it in a little way.’ ”