“Flashlight?”

McDonough passes me a yellow penlight from the drawer.

With my heart racing, I systematically probe my father’s mouth with a finger. What am I hoping for? A tuft of fur? Some trace evidence of another person? As my finger slides between the upper gum and cheek, I feel something small and hard, like a kernel of corn. I remove it with my thumb and forefinger.

It’s not corn. It’s a plastic pellet-a gray one-exactly like the ones that were pouring out of my father’s chest in my dream. “My God,” I breathe.

“What is it?” asks McDonough.

“A plastic pellet. It’s from inside this stuffed animal. Originally they were stuffed with rice to make them soft, but after a while the company started using plastic.”

“Is it important?”

“It’s evidence of murder. Do you have a Ziploc bag?”

McDonough gets one, and I place the pellet inside. More probing reveals three more pellets: one behind the cheek, two in the throat.

“You saw me locate these,” I say. “I’m replacing them exactly as I found them. Did you witness that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’ll testify to that in court?”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that. But I’ll say what I saw.”

As I pull off the gloves with a snap, a worrisome thought occurs to me. I should have searched my father’s mouth before inserting Lena’s head into it. The stress is getting to me. I pass Mr. McDonough the stuffed animal. “Please examine this and see if you can find any holes in her coat.”

Surprisingly, he dons a pair of gloves and obliges me. “I don’t see any.”

I’d really like a few moments alone with my father, but if I’m alone with the body, that might cause legal problems later. In full view of the funeral director, I kneel beside the casket, lay my hand over my father’s, and kiss him softly on the lips. A little mold isn’t going to kill me.

“I love you, Daddy,” I whisper. “I know you tried to save me.”

My father says nothing.

“I’m going to save myself now. Mama, too, if I can.”

For a moment I think Daddy is crying. Then I realize it’s my own tears running down his face. The iron veneer of professionalism I’ve managed to maintain up to this point is cracking. It’s no anonymous corpse lying in this box. It’s my daddy. And I don’t want to lose him again. I don’t want him back in the ground. I want him to sit up and hold me and tell me that he loves me.

“Miss Ferry?” says McDonough. “You all right?”

“No, I’m not all right.” I get to my feet and wipe my eyes. “But I’m going to be. For the first time in my life I’m going to be all right. But somebody else isn’t going to be. Somebody else is going to pay. ”

McDonough looks embarrassed. “Is it okay to close the casket now?”

“Yes. Thank you for everything. I’ll take you back to your car now.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got people who can do that.”

“Thank you.”

My knees are barely steady enough to carry me out of the prep room, but they do. As I enter the coffin-lined corridor, however, a thought strikes me. I turn around.

“Mr. McDonough?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Have you spoken to my grandfather today?”

The funeral director looks quickly at the floor. And that is my answer.

“Mr. McDonough?”

“He called and asked me to let him know what you did at the cemetery.”

I feel the grasp of my grandfather from miles away. “Sir, my grandfather is a powerful man. I know you know that. But you’ve just become involved in an FBI serial murder investigation. My grandfather is also part of that investigation, and not in a positive connection, if you get my meaning. If you interfere by communicating information on these matters to him, the FBI will be crawling up your ass with a two-foot-long halogen flashlight. They will have OSHA down here doing inspections on a daily basis. Do I make myself clear?”

Mr. McDonough looks as if he wishes he’d never set eyes on me. “Ain’t none of this my business,” he says. “I won’t be talking to nobody about it.”

“Good.”

When I step into the sun outside the garage, I find myself facing several men wearing their Sunday best. They all have roses pinned to their lapels. They’re pallbearers, I realize, and they’ve just carried the deceased to the waiting hearse. Soon the family will emerge from the side exit behind me.

I walk quickly down the side of the building, but I can’t escape. A woman about my age rounds the corner with an infant in her arms. As I move aside, her mouth drops open.

“Cat?” she says. “Cat Ferry?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Donna. Donna Reynolds.”

I blink in confusion.

“Used to be Donna Dunaway,” she says.

Recognition comes like a thrown switch. It’s like the day I met Michael Wells. Only Donna hasn’t lost weight in the intervening years like Michael. She’s gained. But somewhere in her plump, rosy cheeks is the outline of a thin-faced girl I knew in junior high school.

“Is this your baby?” I ask.

She nods happily. “My third. Four months old.”

My eyes fix on the baby’s round face as I search for something appropriate to say. Nothing comes. My head is spinning from what I’ve just discovered in the prep room. The baby has huge eyes, a flat nose, and a laughing smile.

“What’s his name, Donna?”

“Britney. She is wearing pink, you know.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

Donna isn’t angry. She’s smiling. “Are you here for the funeral? I didn’t know you knew Uncle Joe.”

“I don’t. I mean” As my words fade into silence, my gaze settles on the baby’s toothless smile. A long string of drool drops from Britney’s mouth, and the greatest epiphany of my life occurs. There’s no blast of trumpets or bolt of lightning from the heavens-merely a sudden and revelatory flash of absolute certainty.

I know who killed the men in New Orleans.

“Cat? What’s going on?”

I gasp in relief. I’m almost to Malmaison, and I’ve been trying to reach Sean since I left the funeral home. “I know who the killer is, Sean.”

“Whoa, whoa, which killer are you talking about? Your family stuff, or the New Orleans case?”

“New Orleans!”

“How the hell could you know who the killer is?”

“How do I ever know? Something clicked in my head.”

“What clicked this time?”

I’m tempted to tell him, but if I do, there’ll be no stopping the consequences. And right now I’m not at all sure I want the killer arrested. “I can’t tell you that, Sean. Not yet.”

“ Shit. What are you up to, Cat?”

“I’m coming to New Orleans this afternoon. I want you to meet me at my house. Are you still suspended?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still have your badge and gun?”

“I’ve got a gun. And I have a badge that’ll do in a pinch. What do you have in mind?”

“I want to talk to the killer before we do anything.”

“Talk to him? About what?”

“It’s not a him, Sean. It’s a her.”

I hear a quick rush of air. “Cat, don’t do this to me.”

“It’s only a few hours. I know it’s hard on you, but you’ll understand when I get there.” I turn into the drive of Malmaison and accelerate down the oak-shaded lane. The iron gate stands open. I drive through it and take the sweeping curve toward the main house.

“Why did you call me?” Sean asks in a strange voice. “Why not Kaiser?”

“Because I trust you.” I’m lying. I picked Sean because-to a certain extent-I can control him.

“Okay. Call me thirty minutes before you get here.”

“Be ready.” As I swing into the parking lot behind the slave quarters, I’m shocked to find Pearlie’s blue Cadillac parked beside Grandpapa’s Lincoln. Shocked and glad. “I need one more favor, Sean.”

“What is it?”

“I know who killed my father, too.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“My grandfather. He’s the one who molested me. Not my father. Daddy caught my grandfather abusing me, and Grandpapa killed him to keep him quiet.”