“Little,” said Sheralyn Carlson, “being the operative word. She did break out of it long enough to tell Tristan that he was too good for me.” Crooked smile. “Because of this.” Touching the side of one eye. “The epicanthic fold trumps all.”

“She’s a racist,” said Baker.

“Well,” said the girl, “that has been known to exist in various civilizations over a host of millennia.”

Aiming for breezy, but recalling the slight had tightened her voice.

One of those high-IQ types who hid behind words, thought Lamar. That rarely worked for any length of time.

He said, “Tristan couldn’t have been happy with that.”

“Tristan laughed,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “I laughed. We shared the mirth.”

The detectives didn’t answer.

“She,” said the girl. Letting the word hang there for a few seconds. “She- okay, let me fill in the picture with an anecdote. When Tristan started at Brown, he was the epitome of Mega Jock with his shaved head and fresh-faced optimism. By the end of his first semester, his hair had reached his shoulders and his beard was full and woolly; he grew a lovely, masculine beard. That’s when he began suspecting, but she denied everything.”

“Suspected what?” said Baker.

“His true paternity.”

“He doubted that Mr. Poulson was his- ”

“Detective Southerby,” said the girl, “why not be honest? You’re here because of Jack Jeffries’s murder.”

Baker had mentioned his own surname once, when first meeting the family. Most people never bothered to register it. This kid missed nothing.

He said, “Go on.”

“Throughout Tristan’s childhood, she had always talked about Jack. Rather incessantly, at times. Tristan knew that her relationship with Lloyd was sexless and he noted the sparkle in her eye when Jack’s name came up. He wondered as anyone with a brain would wonder. Then, when the inner world began exerting its pull and he began to write, wonder turned to fantasy.”

“About Jack Jeffries being his real dad,” said Baker.

“Every adolescent has them,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “Escape fantasies, the certainty that one has to have been adopted because these aliens one finds oneself living with can’t be linked to one, biologically. In Jack’s case, a rather dramatic physical resemblance kept the fantasy alive.” Another crooked smile. “And wouldn’t you know.”

She crossed the other leg, exposed some thigh, tucked down her dress and ran a finger under the top of a boot.

Lamar said, “Tristan felt he looked like Jack Jeffries.”

“He did, I did. Anyone who saw pictures of Jack Jeffries when he was young did. Two things happened that further fed his fantasy before it became reality. Before Tristan left for Brown, I came across a picture of a boy in a magazine. In People magazine, an article about sperm donors.”

“Melinda Raven’s son by Jack Jeffries.”

“Owen,” said Sheralyn, as if recalling an old friend. “He could’ve been Tristan’s twin. The similarity in age made the resemblance undeniable. That’s why the first thing Tristan did when he got to Brown was grow his hair and beard. To compare himself to pictures of Jack taken back in the Hairy Days. The result was beyond debate. Tristan experienced a crisis of sorts. We spent long hours on the phone and decided he needed a paradigm shift. He took a leave of absence, came home, moved into the guest house of Mommy’s manse and prepared to confront her. We had strategy meetings beforehand, devising how to approach her, finally settled on simplicity: tell her you know and request verification. Tristan took some time to build up his courage, finally did it, when she was on her way to her country club. We expected initial denial, then confession, then some sort of emotion. She didn’t bat an eyelash. Told him he was crazy and that he’d better clean up if he intended to ever have lunch with her at the club.”

“What did Tristan do?” said Lamar.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Ergo, depression.”

“Did he try to contact Jack Jeffries?”

“He did more than try. He succeeded.”

“They met?”

“In cyberspace.”

“E-mail,” said Baker.

“Tristan contacted Jack Jeffries’s website, introduced himself, sent a j-peg of his senior photo, as well as a later, hirsute version, and some lyrics. He expected nothing, but Jack answered, said he was happy to hear from Tristan. Said Tristan’s lyrics were ‘awesome.’ ”

“How’d Tristan react to that?”

The girl turned away. Placed her hand on a small, white abstract carving resting on a glass and chrome table.

This place is like an igloo, thought Baker. “How did Tristan take that?”

The girl gnawed her lip.

“Sheralyn?” said Baker.

“He cried,” she said. “Tears of joy. I held him.”

Ten minutes later, Drs. Andrew and Elaine peeked in.

Sheralyn said, “I’m fine,” and waved them away and they disappeared.

During that time, she’d verified that the lyrics Tristan had sent were “Music City Breakdown.” But she denied knowing about any face-to-face meeting between Tristan Poulson and Jeffries. Nor was she willing to pinpoint Tristan’s whereabouts beyond the guest house on his mother’s property.

“He’s still there,” said Baker.

“I believe so.”

“You believe?”

“Tristan and I haven’t been in contact for several days. That’s why I’m concerned. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“What did you think when you heard Jack Jeffries had been murdered?”

“What did I think?” she said. “I thought nothing. I felt sad.”

“Did you consider that maybe Tristan had done it?”

“Never.”

“Does Tristan carry a weapon?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever shown a violent side?”

“Never. Never never never to any incriminating questions you’re going to ask about him. If I thought he was guilty, I’d never have talked to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d never do anything to incriminate Tristan.”

“Even if he murdered someone?”

Sheralyn rubbed the space to the side of one eye. Same spot she’d touched when discussing Cathy Poulson’s racist comment. Then she sat up straight and stared Baker down- something few people tried.

“I,” she pronounced, “am neither judge nor jury.”

“Just for the record,” said Baker, “where were you the night before last, say between twelve and two AM?”

“That’s not night, it’s morning.”

“Correction duly noted, young lady. Where were you?”

“Here. In my bedroom. Sleeping. I make an effort to sleep soundly.”

“Good habits,” said Lamar.

“I have obligations- school, SATs, theater club, Model UN. Et cetera.”

Sounding bitter.

“Headed for Brown?”

“Not hardly. I’m going to Yale.”

“Sleeping,” said Baker. “First time you heard about Jack Jeffries was…”

“When my father brought it up. He’s our own personal town crier. He reads the morning paper, and comments extensively on every article.”

“You didn’t think anything of it, just sad.”

“Over the loss of life,” said the girl. “Any life.”

“Just that,” said Baker. “Even though you knew this was Tristan’s real dad and Tristan had recently contacted him.”

“I was saddest for Tristan. Am. I’ve called his cell twenty-eight times, but he doesn’t answer. You should find him. He needs comfort.”

“Why do you think he’s not answering?”

“I’ve already explained that. He’s depressed. Tristan gets like that. Turns off the phone, goes inward. That’s when he writes.”

“No chance he’s run away?”

“From what?”

“Guilt.”

“That’s absurd,” she said. “Tristan didn’t kill him.”

“Because…”

“He loved him.”

As if that explained it, thought Lamar. Smart kid, but utterly clueless. “Tristan loved Jack even though he’d never met him.”

“Irrelevant,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “One never falls in love with a person. One falls in love with an idea.”