But how the hell would he have known she’d be out jogging that night?

This whole thing was a mess.

Getting nowhere, he set aside the pencil and rubbed his temples, knowing there was more to consider than the situation with just those three. What was he going to do about Miles?

His friend. His deputy.

Cutting a deal with Sims and losing the paperwork? Letting him go? Then charging out like this was the Wild West to bring Otis to justice without even bothering to talk to Earl Getlin?

Harvey wasn’t a bad guy, but he was going to have problems with this. Serious problems.

They all were.

Charlie sighed. “Hey, Madge?” he called out.

The secretary popped her head into the office. Plump and graying, she’d been around almost as long as he had and knew everything that went on in the department. He wondered if she’d been listening.

“Is Joe Hendricks still the warden up at Hailey?”

“I think it’s Tom Vernon, now.”

“That’s right,” Charlie said, nodding, remembering he’d read about it somewhere.

“Can you look up the number for me?”

“Sure. Let me get it. It’s in the Rolodex on my desk.”

She was back in less than a minute, and when Charlie took the slip, she stood for a moment, not liking the look in his eyes. She waited to see if he wanted to talk about it.

He didn’t.

It took almost ten minutes to get Tom Vernon on the phone.

“Earl Getlin? Yeah, he’s still here,” Vernon answered.

Charlie was doodling on the paper in front of him. “I need to talk to him.”

“Official business?”

“You could say that.”

“No problem from this end. When are you planning to come up?”

“Would it be possible this afternoon?”

“That fast, huh? Must be serious.”

“It is.”

“All right. I’ll send word down that you’re coming. What time do you think you’ll make it?”

Charlie checked his watch. A little after eleven. If he skipped lunch, he could be there by midafternoon.

“How about two o’clock?”

“You got it. I assume you’ll need someplace to talk to him alone.”

“If that’s possible.”

“It’s no problem. See you then.”

Charlie hung up the phone, and as he was reaching for his jacket, Madge peeked in.

“Are you heading up there?”

“Have to,” Charlie said.

“Listen, while you were on the phone, Thurman Jones called. He needs to talk to you.”

Otis Timson’s attorney.

Charlie shook his head. “If he calls again, tell him that I’ll be back around six or so. He can reach me then.”

Madge shuffled her feet. “He said it was important. That it couldn’t wait.” Lawyers. If they wanted to talk, it was important. If he needed to reach them, it was another story.

“Did he say what it was about?”

“Not to me. But he sounded angry.”

Of course he did. His client was behind bars and hadn’t been charged yet. No matter-Charlie had the right to hold him for now, anyway. The clock was ticking, though.

“I don’t have time to deal with him now. Tell him to call later.”

Madge nodded, her lips together. There was more she seemed to want to say.

“Anything else?”

“A few minutes later, Harvey called, too. He needs to talk to you as well. He says it’s urgent.”

Charlie slipped into his jacket, thinking, Of course he did. On a day like today, what else could I have expected?

“If he calls back, give him the same message.”

“But-”

“Just do it, Madge. I don’t have time to argue.” Then, after a moment: “Have Harris come in here for a second. I’ve got something for him to take care of.” Madge’s expression made it clear she didn’t like his decision, but she did as she was told. Harris Young, a deputy, came into the office. “I need you to find Sims Addison for me. And I need you to watch him.” Harris looked a little uncertain of what he was being asked to do. “Do you want me to bring him in?”

“No,” Charlie said. “Just find him for me. And baby-sit him. But don’t let him know you’re there.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll be back around six, so at least until then.”

“That’s almost my whole shift.”

“I know.”

“What do I do if I get a call and have to leave?”

“Don’t. Your job today is Sims. I’ll call and get another deputy in here today to cover for you.”

“All day?”

Charlie winked, knowing that Harris would be bored out of his mind. “You got it, Deputy. Ain’t working law enforcement grand?”

Miles didn’t go home after leaving Charlie’s office. Instead he drove around town, drifting from one turn to the next, making a haphazard circuit through New Bern. He didn’t concentrate on his route, but propelled by instinct, he soon found himself approaching the marlstone archway of Cedar Grove Cemetery. He parked the car and got out, then wove his way among the headstones, toward Missy’s grave. Set against the small marble marker there was a batch of flowers, dried and withered, as if they’d been placed there a few weeks back. But there were always flowers here, no matter when he seemed to visit. They were never left with a card, but Miles understood that no card was necessary. Missy, even in death, was still loved.

Two weeks after Missy Ryan’s funeral, I was lying in bed one morning when I heard a bird begin to chirp outside the window. I’d left it open the night before, hoping for a break in the heat and humidity. My sleep had been fitful since the accident; more than once, I awoke to find my body covered in sweat, the sheets damp and oily, the pillow soaked through. That morning was no different, and as I listened to the bird, the odor of perspiration, sweet ammonia, surrounded me.

I tried to ignore the bird, the fact that it was in the tree, the fact that I was still alive and Missy Ryan wasn’t. But I wasn’t able to. It was right outside my window, on a branch that overlooked my room, its call shrill and piercing.I know who you are,it seemed to say, and I know what you did. I wondered when the police would come for me.

It didn’t matter if it was an accident or not; the bird knew they would come, and it was telling me that they would be here soon. They would find out what kind of car had been driven that night; they would find out who owned it. There would be a knock at the door and they would come in; they would hear the bird and know I was guilty. It was ludicrous, I know, but in my half-crazed state, I believed it.

I knew they would come.

In my room, wedged between the pages of a book I kept in the drawer, I kept the obituary from the paper. I’d also saved the clippings about the accident, and they were folded neatly beside it. It was dangerous to have kept them. Anyone who happened to open the book would find them and would know what I had done, but I kept them because I needed to. I was drawn to the words, not for comfort, but to better understand what I had taken away. There was life in the words that were written, there was life in the photographs. In this room, on that morning with the bird outside my window, there was only death. I’d had nightmares since the funeral. Once I dreamed that I’d been singled out by the preacher, who knew what I had done. In the middle of the service, I’d dreamed that he suddenly stopped talking and looked over the pews, then slowly raised his finger in my direction. “There,” he said, “is the man who did this.” I saw faces turn toward me, one after the other, like a wave in a crowded stadium, each focusing on me with looks of astonishment and anger. But neither Miles nor Jonah turned to look at me. The church was silent and eyes were wide;

I sat without moving, waiting to see if Miles and Jonah would finally turn to see who had killed her. But they did not.