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Chapters (42)
  1. Also by Sue Grafton
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Acknowledgments
  6. Prologue
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. Epilogue
  42. Author’s Note

“Because Lolly knows. I asked her the same thing and her memory is as clear as a bell. Richard Nixon.”

“I can see you’re determined to take her word over mine,” she said. “I’ve been to visit her twice. She has no idea who I am and I’ve known her twenty-five years. Besides which, how do you know she isn’t lying for reasons of her own?”

“Because the pastor of your church was also there with his wife. I’d be happy to track them down, and I’ll bet you they’ll back Lolly Brandle. Are you going to call them liars as well?”

“I did not commit a crime.”

“I know you didn’t. You told Ethan and Ellen and Anna you lied on the stand when you actually told the truth in court. Later, you insinuated that Terrence went out that night and had a hand in that girl’s death. You didn’t accuse him outright. You undercut his credibility and you did such a fine job of it that Ethan and Anna were completely alienated from their dad. And still are, for that matter.”

“Accuse me of anything you like. You have no proof and there’s nothing you can do about it even if you did.”

“You got me on that one. At least Mamie knows now and we’ll see what she does with it.”

22

The meeting faltered to a close and we parted company. Verbal clashes seldom come to a satisfying end. They peter out in weak retorts that leave you wishing you’d been as clever in the moment as you are in reviewing the conversation later. I hadn’t scored even one decisive point and none of us had altered our positions in the slightest. I was glad I’d met Evelyn because I had a better sense now of who she was and how she operated.

Poor Dace. I’d formed a ragged picture of his life, joining fragments like a reel of film spliced together with all the big scenes missing. The storyline was there but the point was lost. The meaning of life (assuming there is one . . .) is the glue we use to join events, trying to fill the cracks in hopes the whole of it will make sense. Beginning, middle, and end don’t always add up to much, and, in his case, only an odd note of melancholia remained.