“Well—I live over the restaurant.” Her voice is hesitant and terribly self-conscious. “Just temporarily, you know. I have all your books up there.”

“Really? I’d be glad to sign them for you.”

“Thanks a lot. Um, I’ll get your iced tea now.”

As she walks away, Caitlin gives me a wry smile. “What does a few years of that do for your ego?”

“Water off a duck’s back. Let’s start.”

She gives me a look that says, Yeah, right, then picks up her notebook. “So, are you here for a visit, or is this something more permanent?”

“I honestly have no idea. Call it a visit.”

“You’ve obviously been living a life of emotional extremes this past year. Your last book riding high on the best-seller list, your wife dying. How—”

“That subject’s off limits,” I say curtly, feeling a door slam somewhere in my soul.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes narrow like those of a surgeon judging the pain of a probe. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Wait a minute. You asked on the plane if my wife was traveling with me. Did you know then that she was dead?”

Caitlin looks at the table. “I knew your wife had died. I didn’t know how recently. I saw the ring. . . .” She folds her hands on the table, then looks up, her eyes vulnerable. “I didn’t ask that question as a reporter. I asked it as a woman. If that makes me a terrible person, I apologize.”

I find myself more intrigued than angered by this confession. This woman asked about my wife to try to read how badly I miss her by my reaction. And I believe she asked out of her own curiosity, not for a story. “I’m not sure what that makes you. Are you going to focus on that sort of thing in your article?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let’s go on, then.”

“What made you stop practicing law and take up writing novels? The Hanratty case?”

I navigate this part of the interview on autopilot, probably learning more about Caitlin Masters than she learns about me. I guessed right about her education: Radcliffe as an undergrad, Columbia School of Journalism for her master’s. Top of the line, all the way. She is well read and articulate, but her questions reveal that she knows next to nothing about the modern South. Like most transplants to Natchez, she is an outsider and always will be. It’s a shame she holds a job that needs an insider’s perspective. The lunch crowd thins as we talk, and our waitress gives such excellent service that our concentration never wavers. By the time we finish our crawfish, the restaurant is nearly empty and a busboy is setting the tables for dinner.

“Where did you get your ideas about the South?” I ask gently.