As Reverend Herrick prays, I turn my head and scan the gravestones on Jewish Hill, then the mausoleums on the high ground above the superintendent’s office. I have a feeling that someone else is here today. But who? Cyrus White, maybe? Marko Bakic? Or could Drew be here? Some part of me can’t quite accept that Drew will not see his paramour lowered into the ground. How difficult would it be for him to slip out of the fence behind the city jail and make his way here? Prisoners with half his intelligence and strength have done it. But I see no one hiding among the stones. Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s no one there.

Reverend Herrick is reminiscing about Kate. As I look around the cemetery, I recall many memories of this place: sneaking into it as a twelve-year-old with friends to ride madly through the dark lanes on our banana bikes; walking through the stones in the heat of summer with a lovely girl, then lying on the soft grass beneath a wall to explore each other; meeting the love of my life on Jewish Hill in the dead of night, twenty years after I lost her, hoping to learn the secret truth of our lost lives-

”Excuse me.“

A woman I don’t know brushes past me. The crowd is dispersing. Car engines start in the lanes and idle softly, while figures in black recede from my vision. I recede with them. I see Mia looking for me, but I turn away and walk toward the concrete steps in the wake of some people who parked where they could avoid the long funeral cortege.

Breaking away, I climb to the top of Jewish Hill and turn back toward the river, watching the last of the living depart. Kate’s gleaming casket lies suspended above her open grave. Soon all evidence that she lived will be buried forever. Jenny Townsend still stands beside the tent, alone with Reverend Herrick. The minister reaches out and lays a comforting arm on her shoulder. As they speak, a lone figure appears from beneath the tent. Ellen Elliott. Reverend Herrick hesitates, then moves away from the two women. What can Ellen be saying? And how is Jenny responding? Jenny knew about the affair between her daughter and Drew for some time, yet she didn’t try to stop it, nor did she inform Ellen about it. Thank God, Ellen doesn’t know any of that.

Watching Ellen offer her condolences, I realize that she’s adhering to a code of Southern womanhood that demands precisely what she is doing now: maintaining composure and grace through all trials, however difficult. The women do not embrace, but they do shake hands. Then Ellen walks toward the last two cars in the lane with quiet dignity.

”You fucked up, Drew,“ I say softly. ”You couldn’t see what you had.“

Of course, I’ve never known Ellen as a wife. The gracious figure that gave her sympathy to Jenny Townsend is a far cry from the drug-crazed addict Drew has probably faced more nights than I would have been able to endure. Conjuring that image, it’s not hard to see how appealing Kate Townsend must have looked to him.

Christ, what do I really think about Drew? Quentin Avery is willing to believe that he committed brutal rape and murder. But the mother of the victim is not. Of course, Jenny doesn’t have all the facts of the case. I do. Most of them, anyway. Is there a dark corner of my heart where I admit that Drew might have blown a gasket and murdered the teenager he’d fallen in love with? That he got her pregnant, panicked, and then-terrified of losing the family he’d worked so hard to build and sustain-erased her from the world?

No. The boy I grew up with, had he committed such a heinous act, would have owned up to it and taken his punishment like a man, as the archaic phrase goes. That may be a quaint and sexist notion these days, but some of what is best about the South is archaic. The tragedy is that it should be so.

If Drew didn’t kill her,says a voice in my head, then why didn’t he call for help when he found Kate’s body?

”He’s a doctor,“ I say aloud. ”He knew she was already dead. All he would have accomplished by reporting the body was the destruction of his family.“

But what if he didn’t mean to kill her? What if they were playing a sex game, and it simply got out of hand?

”He would have told me that,“ I mutter. ”He would have.“

When you start talking to yourself in a graveyard, it’s time to go home.

As I turn toward my car, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Caitlin, calling from the newspaper. I haven’t spoken to her since last night. My phone showed a missed call from her when I woke up this morning, but she’d called from the paper and hadn’t left a message, so I didn’t call her back. She must be desperate to question me about all the murders, but she’s trying hard to preserve the illusion that she won’t exploit our relationship in order to write a better story.

”Hey,“ I answer, looking down the hill toward Jenny Townsend and Reverend Herrick.

”Where are you?“ Caitlin asks.

”The cemetery.“

”Oh. Can you talk?“

”Yeah. Go ahead.“

”I’ve got bad news and bad news.“

No mention of last night, just straight into our old banter. ”Give me the bad first.“

”The cops just located the spot where Kate Townsend died. The actual crime scene.“

”Where?“ I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.

”They’ve been searching St. Catherine’s Creek ever since they found Kate’s cell phone. About two hours ago, they found human blood and hair on the edge of a wheel rim that was half buried in the sand. They say it’s where the edge of the creek would have been on the day she was killed. It was flooded, apparently.“

”Yes. I think the rain slacked up about an hour before Kate died.“

”The blood they found is the same type as Kate’s. They’re going to send it for a DNA test, of course. But the hair is a perfect match.“

My shoulders sag. ”Was this anywhere close to where they found Kate’s cell phone?“

”About fifty yards away. Right between Pinehaven and Sherwood Estates.“

Right between Drew’s house and Kate’s house, and exactly where he told me he discovered her body. If Kate bled heavily there, she probably died there-which means she didnot die far upstream at Brightside Manor. Cyrus White suddenly looks a lot less guilty than he did thirty seconds ago. And the chances that the police will tie Drew to the actual murder scene with physical evidence just went up astronomically.

”I know that’s bad for Drew,“ Caitlin says in a careful tone.

”He’ll be okay. Who found the blood? The sheriff’s department or the police?“

”The police.“

Thank God for small favors.”Hm.“

”The FBI is in town now, though. DEA, too. They’re setting up a multi-jurisdictional task force in the old Sears store at Tracetown Shopping Center.“

”Good.“

”So maybe all the evidence will be shared from now on.“

”I wouldn’t assume that.“

Caitlin is silent. She wants more information about Drew, but she’s not going to push for it.

”What’s the other bad news?“ I ask.

”Ten minutes ago, Mayor Jones officially resigned. He’s no longer the mayor of Natchez.“

I close my eyes and reach behind me for somewhere to sit down.

”Jones issued his statement to me personally. The Wilson murders were the last straw. This poor guy was trying to do chemotherapy and run the city at the same time. It might have been possible during normal times, but now…it’s sad, really.“

I can’t quite get my mind around this. A decision I’d thought I had at least a month to ponder will now have to be made within days, and maybe within hours.

”Are you there, Penn?“

”Here.“

”Are you picking up Annie today?“

”Mia’s bringing her home.“

”Oh.“ A little coldness in the voice? ”Penn, now that Jones has stepped down, there’s going to be a special election in less than forty-five days. That’s the law.“

”I know.“