I wasn't ready to go there. "Killing Danny is only part of it," I said. "She's the one that attacked Grace. She beat her b.l.o.o.d.y because Danny loved her." I looked away. "And because she's my father's daughter."

"You can't know that."

"I suspect it. I plan to prove it."

I felt her eyes on my face, could not imagine what she must be thinking. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"It's true, what Miriam said." I paused. "My father always did love Grace best."

"You're missing the one piece of good in all this."

"Which is?"

"You have a sister."

Something fragile spread in the void of my chest. I looked out the window, watched hard blue fill up the morning sky. "Miriam killed Gray Wilson," I finally said.

"What?" Robin was stunned.

"She was infatuated with him."

I told her about finding Miriam at Gray Wilson's grave. How she went there every month with fresh-cut flowers, how she claimed that they were going to be married. The same thing she'd said about Danny. It could not be coincidence.

"He was handsome and popular, everything she was not. She probably spent months working up the courage to tell him how she felt, fantasizing about his response. Playing it out in her mind. Then the party happened." I shrugged. "I think she tried to seduce him and failed. He said something belittling. Laughed, maybe. I think she bashed his head in with a rock when he tried to walk away."

"Why do you think that?"

"It's what happened to Danny, more or less."

"I'd like something more."

"Ask me again in three hours."

"Are you serious?"

"Right now, it's just theory."

She looked at the postcard. It was material evidence in what could easily be a capital case. She could be fired, prosecuted. She picked it up. "If this has prints, it could set Dolf free. Have you considered that?"

"He'll walk, regardless."

"Are you willing to gamble on that?"

"I know reasonable doubt when I see it. You do, too. Miriam shot two people in a fit of jealousy over Danny. She used the gun taken from his abandoned truck, gave him thirty thousand dollars, thought he was going to marry her." I shook my head. "The case will never go to trial."

"Will you at least tell me what you're planning?"

"You made a choice. I made a choice. It's time for my father to do the same thing."

"Is this about forgiveness?"

"Forgiveness?" I said. "I don't even know what that word means."

Robin stood and I reached for her hand. "I can't stay here," I said. "Not after this. Not knowing what I do. When the dust settles, I'm going back to New York. I want you to come with me this time."

She bent and kissed me. She left two fingers on my jaw as she straightened. "Whatever you're doing," she said. "Don't screw it up."

Her eyes were wide and dark, but that was no kind of answer, and we both knew it.

CHAPTER 33.

I called George Tallman at home. The phone rang nine times and he dropped the receiver when he tried to answer. "George?" I asked.

"Adam?" His voice was thick. "Hang on." He put the phone down. I heard it strike wood. Most of a minute pa.s.sed before he picked it up again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not dealing with this very well."

"You want to talk about it?"

He knew most of what had happened, and sounded like a man in full-blown shock. He kept using the present tense when he spoke of Miriam, then he'd apologize, embarra.s.sed. It took a few minutes for me to realize that he was drunk. Drunk and confused. He did not want to say anything that would hurt Miriam's memory. Saying that made him cry.

Her memory.

"Do you know how long I'd been in love with her?" he finally asked.

"No."

He told me, in fits and starts. Years. All the way back to high school, but she'd never wanted anything to do with him. "That's what made it so special," he explained. "I waited. I knew it was right. I stayed true. Eventually, she knew it, too. Like it was meant to be."

I waited for a dozen heartbeats. "May I ask a question?"

"Okay." He sniffed loudly.

"When Miriam and Janice flew back from Colorado, they spent the night in Charlotte and stayed there the next day."

"To shop."

"But Miriam wasn't feeling well." It was a guess. I wanted corroboration.

"She was... how did you know that?"

"You took Janice shopping and left Miriam at the hotel."

Suspicion crept into his voice. "Why are you asking about this?"

"Just one more question, George."

"What?" Still doubtful.

"What hotel did they use?"

"Tell me why you want to know?" He was sobering up, suspicion growing, so I did what I had to do. I lied.

"It's a harmless question, George."

A minute later, I hung up, and for two more, I did nothing, just closed my eyes and let everything wash over me. The pain climbed to the next level as the drugs wore thin. I thought about the morphine pump, but kept my hand on the bed. When I felt able, I called the hotel in Charlotte. "Concierge desk, please."

"One moment." The phone clicked twice, then another man's voice. "Concierge."

"Yes. Do you have cars available for your guests?"

"We have a private limousine service."

"Do you loan cars to your guests? Or rent them?"

"No, sir."

"What car rental company is nearest to your hotel?" He told me. It was one of the big ones.

"We can take you there in a shuttle," he said.

"Can you give me their phone number?"

The woman who answered at the rental desk was standard corporate issue. Monotone. Unflappable. Unhelpful when I asked my question. "We cannot give out that information, sir."

I tried to stay calm, but it was difficult. I asked three times. "It's very important," I said.

"I'm sorry, sir. We cannot give out that information."

I hung up the phone, caught Robin on her cell. She was at the station house. "What is it, Adam? Are you okay?"

"I need some information. I can't get it. They'd talk to the police, I think."

"What kind of information?"

I told her what I wanted and gave her the number of the car rental company. "They'll have records. Credit card confirmations. Something. If she jerks you around, you can always try the corporate office."

"I know how to do this, Adam."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. I'll let you know. Stay by the phone."

I almost smiled. "Was that a joke?"

"Cheer up, Adam. The worst part is over."

But I was thinking of my father. "No," I said. "It's not."

"I'll call you."

I sank into the pillow and watched the big clock on the wall. It took eight minutes, and I knew in the first second that she'd gotten what I wanted. Her voice had that keen edge. "You were right. Miriam rented a green Taurus, license plate ZXF-839. Miriam's credit card. Visa, to be precise. Rented that morning, returned that afternoon. One hundred and seventeen miles on the odometer."

"That's round-trip to the farm and back."

"Almost to the mile. I checked."

I rubbed my eyes. "Thanks," I said.

She paused. "Good luck, Adam. I'll come see you this afternoon."

The next call had to wait until business hours. I called at nine. The woman who answered the phone was dangerously happy. "Good morning," she said. "Worldwide Travels. How may I be of service?"

I said h.e.l.lo and got straight to the point. "If I wanted to fly from Charlotte to Denver," I asked. "Could you route me through Florida?"

"Where in Florida?"

I thought about it.

"Anywhere."

I watched the clock while she tapped keys. The answer came in seventy-three seconds.

I closed my eyes again, shaky, strangely out of breath. The pain in my leg climbed like it might never stop: sharp spikes that radiated outward in waves. I buzzed the nurse. She took her time.

"How bad is this going to get?" I asked.

I was pale and sweaty. She knew what I meant, and there was no pity in her face. She pointed with a well-scrubbed finger. "That morphine pump is there for a reason. Push the b.u.t.ton when the pain gets too bad. It won't let you overdose." She started to turn. "You don't need me holding your hand."

"I don't want any morphine."

She turned back, one eyebrow up, voice dismissive. "Then it's gonna get a lot worse." She pursed her lips and left the room on wide, slow-moving hips.

I pushed into the pillows, dug my fingers into the sheets as the pain bared its teeth. I wanted the morphine, wanted it badly, but I needed to stay sharp. I fingered the postcard.

SOMETIMES IT'S JUST RIGHT.

And sometimes it's wrong.

My father arrived at ten.

He looked horrible: drained eyes, broken posture. He looked like a d.a.m.ned soul waiting for the floor to drop.

"How are you?" he asked, and shuffled into the room.