I kept an eye on the long drive, looking for dust behind bright metal. I hoped for the lawyer to make it first, yet expected Grantham and his deputies to arrive at any moment. A lawyer friend once said that it was easy to hate lawyers until you needed one. At the time I’d found him glib, but not now.

Now he was a goddamn genius.

The day settled as our conversation dwindled to nothing. There was danger in words, trip wires and blind spots where great harm could be done. Because the reality of murder was more than the concept of it. It was the loose, damp corpse of a man we’d all known. It was the questions that sprung up, the theories that we’d all turned over yet not once discussed. He was killed here, where the family lived and breathed, and that danger alone should be enough; but there was also Grace.

And there was me.

No one knew what to do with me.

When Janice spoke to me, her voice was too loud, her eyes directed somewhere over my shoulder. “So, what are your plans now, Adam?” Ice clattered in the fine crystal beneath her white-tipped fingers, and when our eyes finally met, there was a sudden filling of the space between us, as if countless wires connected us, as though they all started humming at once.

“I plan to have a conversation with you,” I said, and did not mean for the words to sound like such a challenge.

The smile slipped off her face, taking most of her color with it. She wanted to look at my father, but did not. “Very well.” Her voice was cool and even. She smoothed her skirts and rose from the chair as if an unseen force lifted her. She could have carried stacked books on the crown of her head, even as she leaned in to kiss my father on the cheek. She turned at the door, more calm, I thought, than she had ever been. “Shall we go to the parlor?”

I followed her into the cool interior, down the length of the long hall. She opened the door to her parlor and motioned me ahead of her. I saw pastel colors and rich fabrics, a bag of incomplete needlepoint on what my mother would have called a “fainting couch.” I took three steps into the room and turned to watch her as she gentled the door shut. Her thin fingers spread out on the dark wood, then she turned and slapped me. Pain flared like a match head.

Her finger rose between us, and the damaged paint shone on her nail. Her voice wavered. “That’s for having your father lecture me about the meaning of family.” She stabbed her finger in the direction of the porch. “For insulting me in my own home.” I opened my mouth, but she spoke over me. “For calling me on the carpet in front of my own family like I was some wicked, wicked child.” She lowered her hand, tugged at the waist of her pale yellow silk jacket, and suddenly, she was shaking. Her next words fell into the room like petals from a dying flower.

“I refuse to be frightened, and I refuse to be manipulated. Not by you and not by your father. Not anymore. Now, I’m going upstairs to rest. If you tell your father that I struck you, I’ll deny it.”

The door closed with the faintest click, and I think that I would have followed her out, but it didn’t happen. The cell phone vibrated in my pocket, even as I took the first step. I recognized Robin’s number. She was out of breath.

“Grantham just left with three deputies. They plan to execute the warrant.”

“They’re coming here?”

“That’s my information.”

“When did they leave?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. They’ll be there any minute.”

I took a deep breath. It was happening again. “I’m on my way,” Robin said.

“I appreciate the thought, Robin, but whatever is going to happen will be long done by the time you get here.”

“Is your lawyer there?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Just do me one favor, Adam.” I waited, said nothing. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

A pause. “Don’t resist.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it. Don’t antagonize him.”

“Jesus.”

“Okay. I’m rolling.”

I closed the phone, rattled a vase on a side table as I passed down the hall. I walked into the sudden warmth of sunset and saw Parks Templeton climbing the steps. I pointed at him and then at my father. “I need to see you two inside, right now.”

“Where’s your mother?” my father asked.

“Stepmother,” I said automatically. “This is not about her.”

“What is it?” Parks asked.

I looked around the porch. Every eye was on me, and I realized that discretion was irrelevant. It would happen soon and it would happen right here. I put my eyes on the horizon one more time, and saw just how few seconds were actually left.

It looked like three cars. Lights on, sirens off.

I met the lawyer’s eyes. “You’re going to earn your money today,” I said. He looked perplexed and I pointed. The lights flashed brighter as the day darkened around us. They were close; two hundred yards. Engine noise reached out and touched us. It swelled as my family came to its feet around me, and I heard the sound of rocks being thrown against metal, the dull clank and bang of cars moving too fast on gravel. Ten seconds out the lead car killed its lights; the others followed suit. “They’re here to serve an arrest warrant,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Let me do the talking,” the lawyer replied, but I knew that he would be useless. Grantham would not care about subtleties. He had his warrant, and it was enough. I felt a hand on my shoulder; my father. He squeezed hard, but I did not turn around; and no words found their way past his lips. “It’s going to be all right,” I said, and his fingers tightened.

That’s how Grantham found us-an unbroken line. His hands settled on his hips, and his deputies formed up around him, a wall of brown polyester and black belts that angled low on one side.

Parks stepped into the yard, and I followed him down. Dolf and my father joined us. The lawyer spoke first. “What can I do for you, Detective Grantham?”

Grantham dipped his chin to peer across the tops of his glasses. “Afternoon, Mr. Templeton.” He shifted slightly. “Mr. Chase.”

“What is it that you want?” my father asked.

I looked at Grantham, whose eyes shone intently behind the same thick and dirty glasses. There were four men, not a single expression between them, and I knew then that there was no stopping it.

“I’m here lawfully, Mr. Chase, warrant in hand.” His eyes found mine and his fingers spread out. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’d like to see the warrant,” Parks said.

“Momentarily,” Grantham replied, his eyes still on me. He’d not once looked away.

“Can you stop this?” my father asked the lawyer in a low voice.

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Parks.” Louder.

“We’ll have our moment, Jacob. Be patient.” He spoke to Grantham. “Your warrant had best be in perfect order.”

“It is.”

I stepped forward. “Then get on with it,” I said.

“Very well,” Grantham replied. He turned to my left, the cuffs coming out. “Dolf Shepherd, you are under arrest for the murder of Danny Faith.”

Light flashed on steel, and when it circled his wrists, the old man bent under the weight of it.

This was wrong. In almost thirty years I’d never seen Dolf raise his hand or his voice in anger. I pushed toward him and deputies drove me back. I called Dolf’s name, and the batons came out. I heard my name; my father yelling for me to calm down, to not give them an excuse. When his hands, thick and speckled, finally gripped my shoulders, I allowed him to pull me back. And I watched as Dolf was stuffed into one of the marked cars.

The door slammed, lights pulsed on the roof, and I closed my eyes as a sudden roar filled my head.

When it died, Dolf was gone.

He’d never once looked up.