“Thanks anyway,” I said. “Maybe next time.”

Hank shrugged. “Have it your way. But listen, before you go.” His voice was low and serious. “Take care, all right? This case is getting big press, even here in Charlotte. Whoever’s working it won’t care about stepping on toes. So watch your ass.”

For a moment, I thought I’d been indiscreet, that I’d opened myself too much. That he’d guessed at the larger truth. But there was nothing in his eyes beyond simple goodwill.

“I’ll do it,” I told him, and put a twenty on the table.

“Hey, man. My treat.”

“Buy your friends a round on me. We’ll talk later.”

Outside, the day died a slow, purple death, its breath a sigh of wind on the near-empty streets. A narrow blade of orange scarred the darkening clouds, then faded as I watched. I felt the heat of the day trapped in the concrete beneath my feet; it made me think of hell, yet cooled even as I walked.

If I was to save Jean, then I wanted to save her all the way, and that meant dealing with Alex. To do that, I needed information. That’s where Hank came in. I wanted him to ferret out whatever truth made Alex tick. Jean loved Alex. Fine. But what did Alex want? Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the capacity for love in her. Yet she found something in my sister. I just wanted to make sure it was nothing bad.

Back on the interstate, I drove as fast as the pickup could handle, and forty minutes later I turned onto her street. The streetlamps were burned out or broken, but I saw a glimmer of light behind her windows. I stepped out of the truck to the sound of a distant bark and the call of crickets in the brush along the track. Somewhere a television played. I climbed the shallow steps to her porch and glanced through the narrow crack of the curtains. The room beyond was dark, but I saw them in the kitchen, at the table. Jean had her back to me; Alex’s face was a dim blur above her shoulder. There were candles on the table, a warm flicker, and I heard Jean laugh. Who was I to judge Alex? I’d not made my sister laugh since that long-ago night when her husband left with the baby-sitter and her world evaporated at a rest stop on I-85.

I almost left, but still there was a corpse, and the certainty that Mills would not rest. I knocked and heard the laughter die, the scrape of chairs. Then there was Jean, her eyes heavy as she said my name in surprise. Alex, behind her, frowned in annoyance and slipped an arm across Jean’s throat, cupping her shoulder with long, tapered fingers.

“Hi, Jean,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“What are you doing here?”

Her face was warmer than the last time I’d been here, and I flicked a glance to the flinty black points that Alex called eyes. “Didn’t Alex tell you I came by earlier, looking for you?” Jean shifted and I saw Alex tighten her grip.

“No,” Jean said uncertainly, her head turning a fraction before squaring back on me. “She didn’t mention it.”

I looked between the two, from Jean’s pale face to the brittle lines of her lover’s. Jean’s eyes were moist, and I thought I smelled wine. “May I come in?” I asked.

“No,” Alex said before Jean could reply. “It’s late.”

Jean put her hand on Alex’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “No,” she said. “It’s all right. He can come in.” She gave me a half smile, and I felt a wash of gratitude.

“Thanks.” I entered her house, smelling the perfume Alex wore as I pushed past her. Jean turned on lights, and I saw that she was wearing a dress and pale pink lipstick. I noticed that Alex, too, was well dressed. The house still smelled of food. “Is this a bad time?” I asked. Jean hesitated, but Alex filled the void.

“We’re celebrating an anniversary.” She paused, as if she wanted me to ask. “Two years together.” She moved her hand to the back of Jean’s neck. Her point was plain, so I addressed myself to Jean.

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.” I saw Alex sneer, thought of her taunting words on my last visit. “I know this is a bad time, but it won’t take long.” Alex released my sister and flung herself onto the couch, her hands again behind her head, a look of wide-eyed expectancy on her face. “I’d like to speak to you alone,” I said.

Jean’s glance moved between us, confusion making her vulnerable, and I remembered how when we were kids, she would go anywhere with me.

“You should talk here,” Alex said to Jean.

“We should talk here,” Jean parroted, and I watched her sit next to Alex, the way she settled against her. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Yes, Work,” Alex said. “What do you want to talk about?” Her eyes were laughing. You have the right to remain silent.

I tried to come up with the best approach, the best way to raise such a delicate subject, but all the rehearsed lines, all the clever ideas that had come to me during the drive to and from Charlotte dried up and blew away like dust.

“You don’t have to talk to the police,” I said. She tensed, alarmed, and turned to Alex. “In fact, it would be best if you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her mouth working as if to find other words. “The police? What are you talking about?” She seemed frightened, nervous, suddenly alive on the couch. Alex laid a hand on her leg and she calmed visibly. Then, as if accepting the inevitable, she said, “Oh, you mean Detective Mills?”

“That’s right.” I nodded. “She’s the lead detective on Father’s murder investigation. We should have talked about this sooner… I just want you to understand how this works. What your rights are-”

Jean cut me off, her eyes wild. “I don’t want to talk about this. I can’t talk about this.” She struggled off the low couch.

“I don’t-”

“Detective Mills said not to talk about this with anybody. She said I had to keep quiet.”

Her behavior puzzled and concerned me. “Jean,” I began.

“I didn’t tell her anything about you, Work. Honestly. She asked a whole bunch of questions, but I didn’t say anything about you.”

Alex spoke into the silence of my dismay. “Just tell him, Jean. It’s the only reason he’s here.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded, and Jean stared at me as if I were a stranger. Her mouth opened; her lips silvered with saliva from her tongue.

“Mills thinks you did it,” Alex said. “That’s what she wanted to talk to us about. She thinks you killed Ezra.”

“That’s what she said?”

“Not in so many words.”

“What did you tell her?” I asked, my eyes on Alex but the question meant for Jean. Alex didn’t say a word, and Jean seemed to be slipping further away. She nodded several times.

“I can’t talk about this,” she said. “I can’t. Just can’t.”

I saw that tears had gathered in her eyes. She looked panicked, pacing from side to side like a caged animal.

“It’s okay, Jean,” I told her. “Everything’s okay.”

“No!” she shouted. “No, it’s not.”

“Just take it easy.”

“Daddy’s dead, Work. He’s dead. Killed. He killed Mom and somebody killed him. Somebody, somebody.” Her voice trailed away with her eyes, which moved aimlessly across the floor. She stopped pacing and began to rock, her fingers twisted white against each other.

Looking at Jean, at her waxen face, I finally accepted the truth of my worst fear. She had killed Ezra. She’d pulled the trigger, and the truth of that was unhinging her. Her mind was adrift, rudderless behind eyes that saw some unspeakable horror. How long had she been like this? And was she already too far gone?

I found myself on my feet, reaching to offer what comfort I could. I touched her shoulder and her eyes snapped up, wide and white. “Don’t touch me!” she said. “Don’t anybody touch me.”

She backed away, hands outstretched. She found the bedroom door with her back and pushed it open. “You should just go home, Work. I can’t talk to you.”