A light clicks on in my head. “Ah. That’s the plan? Winning a Pulitzer before you’re thirty?”

She gives me a sly smile. “Before I’m twenty-nine. That’s the plan.”

“God help this town.”

Her laugh is full and throaty, one I’d expect from an older woman. “Did you know that some of the Sovereignty Commission files are going to remain sealed?”

“No.”

“Forty-two of them. Some of them on major politicians. I heard Trent Lott’s was one of them, but that turned out to be wrong.”

“That’s no surprise. A lot of the most sensitive files were destroyed years ago.”

“Why haven’t you explored any of this in your novels?”

“A sense of loyalty to the place that bore me, I suppose. A lot of people would have to die before I could write a book like that.”

“So, until then you write fluff and take the easy money?”

“I don’t write fluff.”

She holds up her hands in contrition. “I know. I did a Nexis search on you. Publishers Weekly named False Witness the fourth-best legal thriller ever written.”

“After what?”

“Anatomy of a Murder , The Caine Mutiny , and Presumed Innocent.”

“That’s pretty good company,” I murmur, painfully aware that False Witness was four books ago.

“Yes, but it just seems so obvious that you should be writing about all this. Write what you know! You know?”

Caitlin picks up the check and walks over to the cash register, her movements fluid and graceful despite the phenomenal energy that animates her. The restaurant is empty now but for the cashier and our waitress, who chooses this moment to come forward with her copy of False Witness. I take the book, open it to the flyleaf, and accept the pen she offers.

“Would you like me to personalize it?”

“Wow, that would be great. Um, to Jenny. That’s me.”

“No last name?”

“Just Jenny would be cool.”

I write: Jenny, I enjoyed meeting you. Penn Cage.

She blushes as she takes back the book, then glances at Caitlin, who stands waiting for me. “I’d love to talk to you sometime,” she says in a quavering voice. “Ask you some questions, maybe.”

I recognize the nervous tones of an aspiring writer. “I’ll be in again. A friend of mine owns the place.”

“Wow, okay. Thanks.”

I join Caitlin as she walks out onto the brightly lit street.

“Did you get enough for your piece?”

“More than enough.” She tucks her copy of False Witness under one arm and buttons her jacket. “AP will probably pick it up, and it’ll be reprinted all over the South. They like fluff as much as anybody.”

I sigh wearily.

“I’m joking, Penn. God, take it easy, would you?”

“I guess I’m a little tense.”