“Don’t make me an offer. I’ll make you one. Get the house appraised, then knock off twenty percent. No realtor fees, no down payment, nothing. Work out a payment schedule over twenty years at, say . . . six percent interest. That way we have an excuse to stay in touch.”

“Oh, God, Penn, I can’t take advantage like that.”

“It’s a done deal.” I take a deep breath, feeling the invisible bands that have bound me loosening. “Well . . . that’s it.”

“Hold on. The world doesn’t stop because you run off to Disney World.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“I’ve got bad news and news that could go either way.”

“Give me the bad.”

“Arthur Lee Hanratty’s last request for a stay was just denied by the Supreme Court. It’s leading on CNN every half hour. The execution is scheduled for midnight on Saturday. Five days from now.”

“That’s good news, as far as I’m concerned.”

Cilla sighs in a way that tells me I’m wrong. “Mr. Givens called a few minutes ago.” Mr. Givens and his wife are the closest relatives of the black family slaughtered by Hanratty and his psychotic brothers. “And Mr. Givens doesn’t ever want to see Hanratty in person again. He and his wife want you to attend in their place. A witness they can trust. You know the drill.”

“Too well.” Lethal injection at the Texas State Prison at Huntsville, better known as the Walls. Seventy miles north of Houston, the seventh circle of Hell. “I really don’t want to see this one, Cil.”

“I know. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“What’s this other news?”

“I just got off the phone with Peter.” Peter Highsmith is my editor, a gentleman and scholar, but not the person I want to talk to just now. “He would never say anything, but I think the house is getting anxious about Nothing But the Truth. You’re nearly a year past your deadline. Peter is more worried about you than about the book. He just wants to know you’re okay.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’ve had a tough time, but you’re finally waking back up to life. You’re nearly finished with the book, and it’s by far the best you’ve ever written.”

I laugh out loud.

“How close are you? You were only half done the last time I got up the nerve to ask you about it.”

I start to lie, but there’s no point. “I haven’t written a decent page since Sarah died.”

Cilla is silent.

“And I burned the first half of the manuscript the night before we left Houston.”

She gasps. “You didn’t!”

“Look in the fireplace.”

“Penn . . . I think you need some help. I’m speaking as your friend. There are some good people here in town. Discreet.”