Billy Neal gets out of the Lincoln and opens its rear door, but by then my grandfather has seen me and turned in my direction. Neal leans against the trunk of the Town Car and lights a cigarette, his posture radiating insolence.

“Catherine?” Grandpapa calls. “Two visits in three days? What’s going on?”

I’m not going to lie about my reason for being here, even though it might upset him. “I came back to finish the work in my bedroom.”

He stops a couple of feet from me, his blue eyes twinkling with interest. “You mean the blood you found?”

“Yes. I want to check the rest of the room for blood and other trace evidence. Probably the rest of the slave quarters as well.”

The twinkle goes dead. “What kind of evidence? Evidence of what?”

“Evidence of what, I’m not sure. But I’ll find whatever is preserved after twenty-three years.”

He glances at his watch. “You’re going to do this yourself?”

“I don’t think so. I wanted to. And my forensic equipment is packed in my trunk. But if something I discovered ultimately involved the courts, that could-”

“The courts?” He’s giving me his full attention now. “What could possibly involve the courts?”

Why is he forcing me to say it? “Look, I know you told me that you and I probably tracked that blood into the bedroom from the garden that night, but”

“But what?”

“It was raining that night, Grandpapa. Hard.”

He nods as if only now remembering. “You’re right.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. But I can’t stop thinking about that rain. How could anybody track enough blood over thirty yards of wet grass to make those footprints?”

He smiles. “You’re as obsessive and tenacious as I am.”

I can’t help but smile back. “As far as me doing the work, the problem is objectivity. If any kind of legal proceeding involved me-and if I alone had discovered the evidence-that evidence would be suspect. I know people who work at the state crime lab in Baton Rouge. They do some moonlighting. Reconstructing crime scenes, testifying as experts in criminal trials-”

“ Mississippi or Louisiana?”

“ Louisiana.”

Grandpapa gives a perfunctory nod, as though suddenly preoccupied with something else.

“They could work up my bedroom in half a day and videotape the whole thing. Any evidence they discovered would be beyond reproach. Honestly, I can’t even pretend to be objective about this.”

“I understand.” He glances over at his driver, then back at me.

“Do you have any problem with me doing this, Grandpapa?”

He seems not to have heard me. The stroke he had a year ago wasn’t supposed to have affected his conscious thought processes, but sometimes I’m not so sure.

“Whose car is that?” I ask, pointing at the Acura.

“Ann’s,” he replies, his eyes distant.

Aunt Ann rarely visits Malmaison. Her stormy personal life long ago alienated her from my grandparents. It’s my mother who makes the effort to exert a positive influence in Ann’s life, but her efforts mostly go in vain. Diagnosed as bipolar in her midtwenties, Ann-the beautiful and favored child of the family-became a cautionary tale in local society, an example of how great wealth doesn’t necessarily confer happiness.

“Is she visiting Mom?” I ask.

“She’s with Gwen now, but she actually drove up to see me.”

“What about?”

Grandpapa sighs wearily. “What’s it always about?”

Money. Mom told me that Aunt Ann long ago depleted the trust fund my grandfather set up for her. Yet she has no qualms about asking for money whenever she needs it. “Mom said Ann’s new husband is beating her.”

Grandpapa’s face tightens, and I sense the slow-burning anger of a man who judges men by his own strict code. “If she asks me for help with that problem, I’ll intervene.”

I want to ask if he gave Ann the money she requested, but I don’t. He probably wouldn’t tell me.

He’s looking at his watch again. “Catherine, I have a meeting with a member of the Mississippi Gaming Commission. It’s about Maison DeSalle. I can’t be late.”

I suddenly remember the architectural model he showed me in his library, his plans for federal certification of a Natchez Indian Nation. “Oh, right. Good luck-I guess.”

Across the parking lot, Billy Neal holds up his wrist and points at his watch. Grandpapa waves acknowledgment, then gazes deeply into my eyes, as though trying to communicate something important. Through his hypnotic blue eyes, he’s brought the full weight of his considerable charisma to bear on me. His mental capacity hasn’t diminished at all.

“Catherine,” he says, his voice grave, “I’d like you to postpone your plans until I get back from this meeting. It won’t take more than an hour or so.”

“Why?”

He reaches out and takes hold of my hand. “It’s a delicate matter. A personal matter. Personal for you.”

“For me?” A strange buzzing has started in my brain. “Then tell me now. I was about to call the crime lab and get things moving.”

“This isn’t the proper place, dear. We should talk in my study.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“I can’t now. I have the meeting.”

I shake my head in frustration. “I’m tired of being in the dark, Grandpapa. If you want me to hold off doing this, tell me whatever it is right now.”

Anger flashes briefly in his eyes. But instead of chastising me, he walks slowly around the Audi and climbs into the passenger seat. His desire is clear. I get into the driver’s seat beside him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring through the windshield with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Listen,” I say, “ever since I found that blood-long before that, really-I’ve had the feeling you guys have been keeping something from me about that night. I’m sure you think you’re protecting me, but I’m not a child anymore, okay? Not even close. So please tell me what this is about.”

His eyes remain on the red sea of rosebushes in the garden. “The rain,” he murmurs. “We were foolish to think we could lie to you and get away with it for long.” His big chest falls with a deep sigh. “You always had finely honed instincts. Even as a child.”

My extremities are tingling. “Please hurry.”

Grandpapa suddenly faces me, his eyes solemn, the eyes of a doctor about to break bad news. “Darling, your father didn’t die where we told you he did.”

A strange numbness seeps outward from my heart. “Where did he die?”

“Luke died in your bedroom.”

My bedroom The numbness inside me turns cold, the numbness of frostbite. Internal frostbite. I look away, my eyes drawn to the roses I’ve hated for so long. “How did he die?”

“Look at me, Catherine. Look at me, and I’ll tell you all I know.”

I force myself to turn, to focus on the lined patrician face, and he begins to speak in a soft voice.

“I was downstairs reading. I heard a shot. It was muffled, but I knew what it was. It sounded the way our M1s did when we mopped up the Jap bunkers after the flamethrowers went in. When I heard the shot, I ran outside. I saw a man running away from the eastern slave quarters. Your house. I didn’t chase him. I ran straight over to see whether anyone had been hurt.”

“Was the running man black, like you told me before?”

“Yes. When I got inside, I found your mother asleep in her bed. Then I checked your room. Luke was lying on the floor, bleeding from the chest. His rifle was beside him on the floor.”

“Where was I?”

“I don’t know. I examined Luke’s wound, and it was mortal.”

“Did he say anything?”

Grandpapa shakes his head. “He couldn’t speak.”

“Why not?”

“Catherine-”

“Why not?”

“He was drowning in his own blood.”

“From a wound to the side of his chest?”

“Darling, that rifle was loaded with hunting rounds designed to mushroom on impact. The internal damage was devastating.”

I shut out the pain by focusing on details. “Did you touch the gun?”