Climbing into the Maxima, I start the engine and dial Tuscany on the cell phone. While it rings, I floor the accelerator and make a wide squealing turn on the cement floor, then roar through the main loading door. The phone clicks as I hit Canal Street and nearly skid into the curb on the other side.

“Liv Marston,” says a clipped voice. “If you’re a reporter—”

“It’s Penn.”

“What do you want?” The voice hasn’t warmed even one degree.

“I know you don’t want to listen to me, but you’ve got to.”

“Is it about the trial?”

“No. You’ve got to get out of the house.”

“What?”

I hesitate before I reply. Some savage part of me wants to get Livy away and leave her father to face the retribution of his past. Poetic justice, if ever there was any. But I can’t do it.

“Ray Presley’s on his way to Tuscany. He’s going to try to kill your father. He could already be at your house. Or on the grounds somewhere.”

Silence.

“Did you hear me, Livy?”

“I heard you.”

“Tell your father to call the police. They’ll send an army out there to protect him.”

“Are we done now?”

Are we done? “Did you understand what I just told you? Presley is coming there to kill your father.”

“I hope he comes here.”

“You what?”

A police car tears around the corner of Main and Canal, lights flashing, heading in the direction of the pecan-shelling plant. In fifteen minutes every cop and deputy in this town will be combing the downtown streets.

“You’re playing in things you don’t understand, Penn. I tried to tell you the other day. You were a fool to involve yourself in any of this.”

“I understand more than you think. I know now why you did the things you did in the past. The choices you made.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t want to discuss it on the phone. It has to be face to face.”

“We don’t have anything to say to each other.”

“I’m begging you, Livy. Meet me one last time. For the sake of whatever it is that’s bound us together all these years. If you will, I think it will change both our lives. Maybe forever.”

This time she hesitates. “It’s not about the trial?”

“I don’t give a damn what happens at the trial. Name a place. Anywhere, I don’t care. I’ll even come to Tuscany.”

“No. Jewish Hill.”

“Jewish Hill?” Yet another landmark from our past. “In the cemetery?”

“That’s about as private as you can get.”

“Isn’t it locked at night?”

“Park at the foot of the hill. By the wall. It’s not like we’ve never done it before.”

“Do you still have the gun you had in the motel?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it. And drive fast leaving the house.”

“What time?”