Lyn had raised her head and Walton could feel her eyes on him.

“It’s an offshoot of the Klan, started in this part of Mississippi over a hundred years ago.”

David had frozen in surprise, an instinctive reaction he’d been trying to overcome for years, not least because it was an impediment to his chosen profession. When he should be scribbling or reaching for a cell phone camera shot or clicking on his tape recorder, he was frequently still and amazed, taking a costly moment to process some genuinely shocking development. It had led to him being regularly scooped as a cub reporter and was one of the reasons he’d begun focusing on longer form profiles.

“Really,” David managed, goosing himself into action again. “And are the Brayers connected to the Knights of the Southern Order?”

“It’s a secret society,” Walton answered. “No one really knows who’s connected or not, or even if anyone is at all anymore. It was mainly active forty years ago. You don’t hear too much about it these days.”

“Fascinating,” David replied, as much to himself as anyone else.

He’d heard something about the fledgling investigation into the civil rights era crime here in Fayeville, and he’d asked Bobby Brayer about it. Bobby had assured him that should he be entrusted with the governorship he’d do everything in his power to punish any and all criminals. Other interviewees had talked about moving on from the past, but Bobby had been adamant that justice would be served, no matter how late. David wondered now if this was just another example of a politician speaking out loudest against things to which he or she felt some secret guilty connection. He’d seen this time and again: the closeted mayor denouncing gay marriage, the senator who solicited high-end call girls publicly railing against prostitution rings, the reform-obsessed committee chairwoman awash in bribes. Hypocrisy didn’t surprise David. In fact, he’d come to expect it, which made it harder for genuine people to win him over.

“Kill Shootabay rides again,” Lyn said softly.

Walton, Jean, and David all turned toward her. She looked startled, like she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

“Excuse me?” David asked.

“The Knights,” Lyn replied. “We knew who they were. Even in their robes, you could still see their shoes.”

She looked right at Walton, who felt deserving of the shame that engulfed him. He welcomed it even, grateful that there was some retribution after all, in a place where people had gotten away with everything.

Jean spoke up. “Some just thought of it as Southern pride.”

Lyn stared at her.

“I’m not saying they were right,” Jean continued defensively. “But to some it was just a rah-rah Southern patriotic thing. Partly.”

The ensuing silence was its own rebuke. David looked from one to the other, enthralled by the tension.

“What was that name you said a second ago?” he asked Lyn, wishing he’d turned on his recorder faster. “You said someone rides again?”

“Kill Shootabay,” Lyn answered. “People made him up—a monster that rides through town burning houses and snatching people. For the kids, to explain things when we had to. ‘K.S.O.’ would show up painted somewhere and we knew that someone was gonna be killed, probably shot, because they hadn’t obeyed.”

“Kill, Shoot, Obey,” David repeated.

“I’d never heard that,” Jean remarked.

Lyn ignored her.

“They killed my husband and daughter,” she said to David.

“Oh my God, are you—?”

David couldn’t remember the name. He knew about the case, and he’d asked Bobby Brayer about it, and now it was escaping him.

“Lyn Waters,” Lyn said.

“Edward and Jiminy Waters!” David exclaimed.

Lyn winced, resenting their names being blurted out like a quiz show answer. It didn’t feel like an improvement over their not being mentioned at all.

“Edward and Jiminy Waters,” David repeated in a quieter voice. “Theirs is the case that might be reopened.”

Lyn nodded.

“Do you know who did it?” David asked.

Lyn paused.

“I know it was the Knights,” she said. “But I don’t know which ones for sure. For all I know, the ones that did it might be long dead.”

Jean stared out the window. She could see Bo in the hospital parking lot, bouncing a basketball hard against the pavement, as though he were trying to punish one or the other.

“Were any of the Brayers in K.S.O.?”

David posed this question to Lyn.

“Travis Brayer was,” Lyn replied. “Don’t know about his son.”

“You don’t know about Travis, either,” Jean said automatically, unsure exactly why she felt compelled to protect him.

She’d never particularly liked Travis Brayer, though she’d admired his wealth and standing. Travis had enjoyed her husband Floyd, as everyone had, and he’d always invited Floyd and Jean to Brayer Plantation parties. He’d given them reasons to dress up, which injected excitement into otherwise dull routines. Jean recognized that this was a frivolous reason to defend him, particularly against something indefensible.

“Travis Brayer’s a Knight,” Walton said softly but clearly. “There aren’t many who weren’t, me included. And it’s past time we answered for it.”

His admission reshuffled the air around all of them. It blew through the room, and facts settled like leaves in its wake.

Part Three

Chapter 13

Jiminy stood at the edge of the courthouse steps and scanned the lawn for Bo, whom she felt a bit desperate to find. She wanted to talk to him, alone, away from everything and everyone else. When they were together, she’d felt more like herself than she had her whole life, and she longed again for that sensation.

Disappointed not to spot him, she sank down beside the memorial for Fayeville soldiers killed in battle, closed her eyes, and turned her face sunward.

She tried to clear her mind, determined to have a little part of this day for herself only. A little sunny, quiet part. She needed to sort some things out.

A few minutes later, she sensed someone standing over her. She smiled without opening her eyes.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

It took a lot of willpower to keep her eyes closed, but she hoped the effect was confident and sexy. She wanted Bo to want her back.

“Meeting with the clerk,” Carlos answered.

Jiminy’s eyes flew open in surprise.

“Oh! Hi!” she exclaimed.

Carlos laughed.

“Expecting someone else?” he asked.

Jiminy blushed.

“I’m happy it’s you,” she replied.

This was sincere. She really liked Carlos. Nothing physical had happened between them since the night he’d almost kissed her, and Jiminy didn’t plan for them to be anything other than friendly colleagues. But the alternatives hovered, quickening the pulse between them. She felt them in the way he looked at her, in his crooked smile.

“Busy?” Carlos asked.

“Deeply. Can’t you tell?”

He lay down in the grass next to her, leaning back on his elbows.

“This is the best part of my day so far,” he said.

The night they’d been interrupted by the ambulance whisking Jiminy’s grandmother past them to the hospital, when Walton had spotted them and pulled over his car to tell them what was happening, Carlos had watched Jiminy struggle to process the news. He’d watched her blame and then absolve herself, all amid shock and grief. He’d fallen a little for her in that moment. His ex-wife would say it was because of the drama and the sirens and the overall chaos. She’d say the turmoil was what he was attracted to, and that he was simply cultivating affection for a woman who could conveniently embody it. And if that was true, then he would tire of Jiminy once the excitement had passed. He didn’t plan to overtly pursue her; he intended to focus on the work at hand. But her company was a pleasant perk of the job, and he allowed himself to imagine further possibilities.