“I don’t need a shrink. I need to take care of my daughter.”

“Well . . . whatever you do, be careful, okay?”

“A lot of good that does. Sarah was the most careful person I ever knew.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know. Look, I don’t want a single journalist finding out where I am. I want no part of that deathwatch circus. It’s Joe’s problem now.” Joe Cantor is the district attorney of Harris County, and my old boss. “As far as you know, I’m on vacation until the moment of the execution.”

“Consider yourself incommunicado.”

“I’ve got to run. We’ll talk soon.”

“Make sure we do.”

When I hang up, Annie rises to her knees beside me, her eyes bright. “Are we really going to Gram and Papa’s?”

“We’ll know in a minute.”

I dial the telephone number I memorized as a four-year-old and listen to it ring. The call is answered by a woman with a cigarette-parched Southern drawl no film producer would ever use, for fear that the audience would be unable to decode the words. She works for an answering service.

“Dr. Cage’s residence.”

“This is Penn Cage, his son. Can you ring through for me?”

“We sure can, honey. You hang on.”

After five rings, I hear a click. Then a deep male voice speaks two words that somehow convey more emotional subtext than most men could in two paragraphs: reassurance, gravitas, a knowledge of ultimate things.

“Doctor Cage,” it says.

My father’s voice instantly steadies my heart. This voice has comforted thousands of people over the years, and told many others that their days on earth numbered far less than they’d hoped. “Dad, what are you doing home this time of day?”

“Penn? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s up, son?”

“I’m bringing Annie home to see you.”

“Great. Are you coming straight from Florida?”

“You could say that. We’re coming today.”

“Today? Is she sick?”

“No. Not physically, anyway. Dad, I’m selling the house in Houston and moving back home for a while. What comes after that, I’ll figure out later. Have you got room for us?”

“God almighty, son. Let me call your mother.”

I hear my father shout, then the clicking of heels followed by my mother’s voice. “Penn? Are you really coming home?”

“We’ll be there tonight.”

“Thank God. We’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“No, don’t. I’ll rent a car.”

“Oh . . . all right. I just . . . I can’t tell you how glad I am.”

Something in my mother’s voice triggers an alarm. I can’t say what it is, because it’s in the spaces, not the words, the way you hear things in families. Whatever it is, it’s serious. Peggy Cage does not worry about little things.

“Mom? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re coming home.”