He focuses on the women in his audience, lingering upon the prettiest. That his weakness was women I discovered in high school, when his sexual escapades almost destroyed his family. Leo’s wife found a way to live with his flagrant infidelities, but his youngest daughter could not. When Olivia Marston learned at sixteen that her father had left a wake of brokenhearted and pregnant women behind him (which clarified the mystery of her mother’s chronic alcoholism), she turned the strength she’d inherited from Leo against him, shaming and threatening him into changing his ways. It worked for a while, but appetites on that scale can’t be suppressed long. What I found fascinating—and Livy disgusting—was that she was the only woman who ever challenged him. Not one of Leo’s cast-off paramours ever tried to bring him down. The single ones he paid off with abortion money and more, frequently enough to send them back to college or get them started in a new town. The married ones nursed their broken hearts in silence, or, if they confessed to their husbands, were surprised by the nonviolence of the reaction. Such male passivity was unheard of in the South, but by virtue of his power, Leo Marston enjoyed a sort of modern-day droit du signeur, and he used it. As far as I know, he’s paid only one price for his sexual adventures. Though his name has been floated more than once as a potential candidate for governor, each time party officials quietly let the suggestion die. No one feels confident about exposing Leo Marston’s past to the scrutiny of a modern election.

“You’re not carrying a gun, are you?”

Startled from my reverie, I find Sam Jacobs standing beside me. He looks as though he’s only half joking.

“Am I that obvious?”

“You look like you’re ready to tear Leo a new one.”

“I can dream, can’t I? Look, I need to talk to you. Can you give me a ride home?”

“I’m ready now. Let’s hit the bar before we go. Don’s got a bottle of Laphroig over there.”

Sam leads the way. I shake hands with several people as we move through the crowd, accepting compliments on my books and answering polite questions about Annie. The alcohol has loosened everybody up, though thankfully not too much. As Lucy Perry promised, no one mentions the newspaper article. When I catch up to Sam at the bar, he’s chatting with two other men waiting for drinks.

“Hell’s bells!” cries a gravelly female voice behind me. “If it ain’t the Houston representative of the N-Double-A-See-P.”