He turns to Livy. “This boy’s got no case, Livy. None at all.” He turns back to me, laughter rumbling low and deep in his chest. “When Wednesday gets here, you’re gonna wish you never opened your mouth about me. You’re gonna rue the goddamn day you decided to fuck with Leo Marston.”

Confused images fire through the synapses of my brain. My father on the floor of his bedroom, felled by a heart attack. My mother in tears, unable to cope with the stress of the malpractice trial. Jenny Doe describing her meeting with the man who stands before me now, the man who made her feel she’d be doing the world a favor by committing suicide. Peter Lutjens being handcuffed while his wife and children wait for him at home in a clutter of U-Haul boxes.

Victory is written on Leo’s face like blood after a hunt, and the wolfish blue eyes are laughing. I have not struck another human being in anger since I was fifteen years old, but my knee rises into his groin with preternatural speed and force. The air explodes from his lungs. As he doubles over, my elbow crashes into the side of his head, just the way a Houston police detective once taught me.

“Stop it!” Livy screams. “Penn, stop!”

She is running around the car to get between us. Some part of my brain knows I should stop, but I’m still moving forward, pursuing Leo as he staggers back. He shakes his head and raises his big left hand to his jaw. I draw back my fist, then freeze as a silver derringer appears before my nose as though by magic. He must have had it palmed all along, a little nickel-plated gambler’s special.

“Go ahead, you little pissant,” he snarls. “Go ahead.”

“Daddy?” Livy stands two feet behind her father, her voice riding a current of hysteria.

“Go inside, baby. You don’t want to see this.”

“Daddy, I love him.”

This simple declaration hits Leo like an arrow. He actually flinches, like a bear struck between the ribs, and an expression of pure hatred comes over his face. “Go inside, Livy! This boy’s forgotten his place. He assaulted me on my property.”

But Livy doesn’t go. The three of us remain locked in our positions, a pathetic standoff on the edge of tragedy that lasts until Daniel Kelly’s rented Taurus rolls slowly up the drive.

Kelly parks alongside the cars, five feet from us, and rolls down his window like a tourist asking for directions. But what comes through his window is not a map but a Browning Hi-Power pistol, which he points at Leo’s head.

“Please go inside the house, sir,” he says.

“Who the hell are you?” Leo asks, keeping the derringer in my face.