Out on the sidewalk, Enoch stared at the ground, twisting his foot in the snow like a boy who didn’t understand why his brother and father will never come home.

“The finger saved us,” said Judy, flicking her cigarette at the trees. “That was the year of the blizzard—it was like the whole city had slipped into some white hell. Me, fresh from Haiti, I’d never seen anything like it. Mam didn’t know what to do without Papa, without the church. When spring came and the snow melted, we came here and found Róisín’s finger on the altar.”

“Who put it there?”

“God.”

I made a face. She ignored it, which is usually the best thing to do with my face, and went on.

“We rebuilt the ministry around it,” she said. “We survived.”

“I’d like to see where it appeared.”

“Go. I’ll check on Enoch. Tenderhearted boy. Mam shouldn’t have made him come.”

She left me behind and I walked on to inspect the rough pile of half-buried stone. There I found the strange drift of snow and the body of the redheaded man. It was only a vagrant, I told myself. No one could get killed over a missing finger. His mystery was not mine.

As we walked out of the Thicket, I hung a few feet behind. Part of me still doubted the Byrds could be as innocent as they appeared. Part of me always doubts. That is the part that thrills at the sight of a murdered man, that relishes questions whose answers can be fatal. That is the part I wish I could silence forever.

“When was the last time you came by the church?” I said, seeing the blood, the red hair, the skin frozen and cracked.

“Years ago,” said Enoch.

“Does anyone ever come here?”

“No one in the family,” said Judy. “But there are people who live in the Thicket, and people who pass through. Why?”

We stepped onto Houston Street, where the trees stopped as sharply as a sentence. The wind blew in icy from the Hudson. Clouds hid the stars.

“I’ve spent a week and a half on this case,” I said. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you and your family. I’ve turned up no trace of the finger, no sign that anyone would do you harm.”

“So?” said Judy.

“This is the Westside. No one is so pure. Everyone has enemies.”

Judy looked at her brother, asking permission to say something she had been trying to keep to herself.

“It’s not right,” said Enoch. “He’s family.”

“He’s a scoundrel.”

“Still.”

“Who?” I said.

And she told me about her other brother.