“Such a tool,” Mel agrees. “So I go to the TV station and do my ‘student project’—cunningly finding out who told the news people the nurse was in ICU, and you were dangerous, et cetera, while you go to Goodman’s Used Cars to see who bought the truck for Eddie,” she confirms as they leave the confines of the tent.

Since Marion is still wading through years of patient files—and none too pleased about it—Goodman’s is the only avenue Rose can think to pursue.

“Unless you can think of anything better to do,” Rose says.

As they round the corner of Royal’s house, crossing from backyard to front, Mel throws out an arm to stop Rose.

A woman with shoulder-length blond hair swinging, crisp white linen suit gleaming like Sir Lancelot’s armor, is folding her long slim legs into a red Lexus.

“Who was that?” Rose asks when the car is out of sight. The woman absolutely reeks of power.

“Royal’s grandma,” Mel tells her.

That isn’t quite how Rose pictured deaf old Granny. “I feel like I should vote for her or something.”

“She used to be with this big-deal law firm. Since she retired, she does pro bono work for undocumented immigrants.”

“How does that work with the Secret Service son?” Rose asks.

“They don’t talk politics at the dinner table, if that’s what you mean,” Mel replies.

“Here’s my silver Honda, driven by”—Rose checks her phone—“Belva. Good luck. Text when you’re done. We can meet you back here and swap war stories.”

“Sure. You can tell me what a ‘gipper’ is.”

Goodman’s Used Cars is on the south side of Charlotte, where the city peters out in a drizzle of unglamorous commercial enterprises. Like many other car sales lots Rose has seen, Goodman’s has enough pennants flying, it could’ve been signaling the Coast Guard.

Rose waves her driver away and wanders down between the rows of cars under a star-studded sign—literally, yellow plywood stars the size of garbage can lids—wondering where she should begin. Surely, close by will be a slightly balding, middle-aged man, with too many teeth, wearing a cheap suit.

Seeming to materialize out of the chrome and metal, a guy twenty-five or forty, lean and tanned—skin weathered rather than aged—appears, leaning on the cab of a Toyota Camry a row from where Rose meanders. He wears a straw cowboy hat, rolled up on the sides and dark from years of sweat. A black T-shirt, worn loose over plaid shorts, reads WIDE SPREAD PANIC. His long thin feet are encased in leather sandals, probably Mexican made. Chestnut-brown hair waves to his shoulders.

Tilting his head back to shade his eyes, he smiles at Rose. “I saw a midnight blue Miata convertible on the other side of the lot that would look real good on you.”