"It means that an obsession for control is not the same thing as strength; it's just obsession." I thought of Vanessa. "I know what strength looks like," I said.

I don't know what she saw on my face: disgust, maybe pity. And the truth was this: My wife has never been strong, just angry, and there's a huge difference. Deep down she knew this.

"You need me, Work. Whether you know it or not, you will always need me."

As I passed down the empty hall in pursuit of Vanessa, I heard Barbara's final words. They rang with her confidence and I told myself that it was false. This time, she was wrong.

"You know where to find me," she screamed, and I walked faster. "You'll come back." I broke into a run. "You always do!"

I hit the exterior door with my shoulder. It flew open and the afternoon light blinded me. I squinted, shaded my eyes, and saw Vanessa behind the wheel of her truck. She reversed out of her parking spot and sped toward the exit. She slowed at the street but didn't stop, then turned right and accelerated, blue smoke spewing from the exhaust. I ran behind her, called her name. I smelled burned oil, heard my breath and my beating heart. People stared, but I didn't care. I sprinted down the yellow line and I called Vanessa's name.

She didn't stop.

But I wasn't going to let her go, not this time, so I ran back for my truck. I'd catch her on the road or at home. Somewhere. And we'd finish what we'd begun.

I was out of shape and breathing hard when I hit the grass strip that separated the parking lot from the road. I stumbled, caught myself before I went down, then fumbled for my keys. I found the right one, shoved it into the lock, and turned it. She couldn't be too far away, no more than a mile.

I looked up as I opened the door and saw Barbara standing by the rear entrance of the building. Her face was expressionless as she watched me. I, for one, had nothing to say. My eyes probably said it all.

Then I was inside the truck, the engine hot, my foot on the gas. I backed out of the spot, pointed the truck toward the exit. And just like that, my universe changed. Suddenly, there were cars everywhere, pouring into the parking lot. Flashing lights. Uniforms. I was blocked in, surrounded by vehicles.

Nobody drew weapons, but I saw the guns and my heart stuttered. I found it hard to breathe; I knew what was happening. Then Mills was at my door, and she knocked on my window, her face surprisingly empty.

I'd created this scene in my mind on countless occasions: lying awake at night, feeling the wheels turn, so grinding and relentless. Somehow I'd thought that it would never happen, but I'd pictured Mills, and always, without fail, I'd imagined a fierce glee. Somehow, this nothingness was worse.

I rolled down the window, not really feeling my arms.

"Would you turn off the engine and step out of the car, please?" A stranger's voice.

I did what she asked, and the ground felt rubbery beneath my feet.

Mills closed the truck door behind me, and I was very conscious of the sound it made, a metal door slamming shut. Uniformed officers flanked me; I didn't recognize them, and I realized that Mills must have chosen them personally.

Mills continued, and as she spoke, I felt hands turn me, bend me over the hood of my own vehicle.

"Jackson Pickens, you are under arrest for the murder of Ezra Pickens. You have the right to remain silent. . . ."

The metal was hard, unforgiving. I saw rust I'd never seen before. I smelled my own breath. I heard a grunt and realized it was mine.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . ."

I looked up and saw Barbara. She was still against the building and I sought her face. It was almost as empty as Mills's had been, but something bent her features and it looked like anger.

I felt the cuffs cinched tight around my wrists. Somebody pulled me upright by the back of my shirt. People had collected on the sidewalk and they stared. I stared back as Mills finished reading me my Miranda rights from a card.

"You are entitled to an attorney." Here she looked up and met my eyes. "If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to represent you."

I didn't want to look at her face, so I tilted my face to the sky, suddenly thinking of the hawk I'd seen from the bridge. But this sky was empty, and if redemption moved in it, it did so in a place that I could not see.

"Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

Finally, I looked at her. "Yes. I understand them." Another stranger's voice, this one from my own mouth.

"Search him," Mills said, and again the hands were upon me. They patted me down, ran up my legs, groped my crotch and my armpits. They took my wallet and my pocketknife. Under the public eye, they took my belt. I was not a person anymore. I was part of the system.

I knew how it worked.

I was escorted to one of the patrol cars and placed in the backseat. Again, my ears resonated with the metallic clang of a slammed door. The sound lasted a long time; when it was gone, I saw that the crowd had grown, and saw also that Barbara was gone. She would not want to be seen, but I imagined her in one of the windows, one eye on me and one on the crowd. She would need to know who had personally witnessed my public disgrace.

Outside, Mills spoke to several of the uniformed officers. My truck would be impounded and searched. I would be taken to the Rowan County Jail and processed. I knew the drill.

I would be stripped, subjected to a cavity search, and dressed in a loose orange jumpsuit. I would be given a blanket, a toothbrush, a roll of toilet paper, and a pair of used flip-flops. I would be given a number. Then I would be given a cell.

Sooner rather than later, I would be questioned, and I knew that I had to prepare for that.

But right now, it didn't matter. I couldn't see it. Instead, I saw Vanessa, and how she would hurt when I failed to come after her.

How long would she wait before she closed the door on me forever?

The answer was unavoidable.

Not long, I thought.

If at all.

I thought of Jean and tried to remain calm. Reasons, I told myself. There are reasons for this. Good ones. If not me, then Jean. I focused on that, and it kept me grounded. This was just the first step. They were taking me to jail, not prison. No one had convicted me yet.

But I couldn't fool myself for long, and as we drove away, I waited for the fear sweats to find me.

CHAPTER 24.

The room was square and had wire cages over the lightbulbs; it smelled of feet. Time-bent black linoleum tiles rippled across the floor and gave the room a warped feel, like giant hands had twisted it, and I wondered if it was bad construction or my state of mind. The room was at the back of the police station, and like similar rooms at the jail, this one had green walls, a metal table, and two chairs. It also had a mirror, and I knew that Mills was behind it. She knew that I knew she was behind it, and that just made it silly.

In spite of everything, I felt a strange smile cross my face. Maybe it was because I knew that I had an alibi. If I broke, I had an out, and that made everything surreal. Maybe I was closer to the edge than I realized. Whatever the case, the feeling persisted.

They'd brought me in the back, through the parking garage, then down a concrete hall to this place that smelled like feet. They'd removed my cuffs and left. I'd been sitting there for an hour but had not touched the water pitcher on the table. I'd heard cops joke about the technique. Suspects with full bladders often spoke too freely, just to get it over with and get to the john. The wait was also common. They liked for the reality to settle in; they liked the fear sweats.

So I sat still and tried to prepare myself, but what I really wanted was a cigarette. I thought of all the clients who had been in this room before me.

When Mills came in, she brought the ripe-peach smell with her. Another detective followed her in, and I knew his face but not his name. Mills sat opposite me and he leaned against the wall, next to the mirror. He had big hands and a small head; he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and watched me without blinking.

Mills put the usual things on the table-pad, pen, tape recorder, manila file folder. Then she put a piece of paper in front of me and I recognized the Miranda waiver form. She turned on the tape recorder and announced the date and the time. She identified everyone present, and then she met my eyes.

"Mr. Pickens, you have previously been advised of your Miranda rights. Is that correct?"

"May I have a cigarette?" I asked.

Mills glanced at Detective Small Head and he produced a pack of Marlboro Lights. I took one from his hand, slipped it between my lips. He leaned across the table, lit it with a cheap pink lighter, and retreated to his place against the wall.

Mills repeated the question. "Have you previously been advised of your Miranda rights?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand those rights?"

"I do."

"Before you is the standard North Carolina Miranda waiver form. It explains your rights. Will you please read the form out loud?"

I picked up the paper and read it for the benefit of the tape recorder and any judge who might be asked to scrutinize the legality of this interrogation.

"Do you understand these rights?" Mills was taking no chances.

"I do."

"If you are willing to speak to us at this point, I'd ask you to indicate your willingness on the waiver form, then date and sign it."

All such waiver forms have a box you can check if you're willing to proceed with the interrogation. Under the law, once a suspect is in custody and requests the presence of counsel, the police are required to suspend the interrogation immediately. Anything said after that time is inadmissible in court; in theory, so is any evidence the cops find based on such statement.

I told all my clients the same thing: "Don't ever sign that damn waiver. Ask for a lawyer and keep your mouth shut. Nothing you say will help you."

I ignored my own advice, signed the waiver, and passed it over. If Mills was surprised, she hid it well. She slipped the signed form into her manila folder, as if afraid I might change my mind and tear it up. For a moment, she appeared uncertain, and it occurred to me that she'd never anticipated that I'd cooperate. But I needed information, and I wouldn't get it without playing along. They'd found something. I wanted to know what it was. It was a dangerous game.

I took the initiative. "Have I been indicted?"

"This is my interrogation." Her demeanor remained calm; she was still the detached professional, but it wouldn't last long.

"I can always retract my waiver," I said.

Few people realize this. You can sign a waiver in blood, answer questions all day, and then still change your mind. They then have to stop the interrogation, a thing that no cop wants to do until he's ready. I saw a muscle twitch in Mills's jaw. The deck is stacked in the cops' favor, and they often benefit from people's ignorance of the system.

"No. There's no indictment."

"But you have an arrest warrant?"

She hesitated again, but then answered. "Yes."

"What time did you get it?"

Her mouth constricted into a narrow pucker, and I saw Detective Small Head straighten against the wall.

"That's not important."

I could see the struggle on her face. Her answer would piss me off, but so would her silence. And I knew Mills; she wanted me to talk, wanted it so badly, she could taste it. If I talked, she could trip me up, score an early victory. If I exercised my right to remain silent, she would be denied that pleasure. But she wanted the early hit. She wanted blood, and had faith in her ability to get it.

"One o'clock," she finally said.

"Yet you waited until after five to arrest me."

Mills looked down at her pad, embarrassed to have this conversation as part of the official interrogation tape. Cops have rules, too. Don't let suspects take control of an interrogation.

"I just want to make sure we understand each other," I continued. "I know why you waited." And I did. By arresting me after five, I had no chance to go before a judge on a bail motion, not that day. That meant at least one night in jail, and that was personal, like the newspaper she'd left on my kitchen table. She wanted me to feel the noose, plain and simple.

"Are you finished?" she asked.

"Just so we understand each other."

"Then let's get on with this." She began systematically, and I had to admit that she was good. She established my identity, my relationship to the deceased, and my occupation with minimum dialogue. She wanted a clean, crisp transcript. She questioned me about the night my father died, and she was thorough. She wanted every moment accounted for, and I gave her the same story I'd given before. Mother's accident. The hospital. Ezra's house. The phone call. His sudden departure. I played down the severity of his argument with Jean, and I confirmed once again that after I'd left Ezra's house, I was at home for the rest of the night. "No," I told her. "I never saw my father again."

"What about his gun?" she asked.

"What about it?"

"Did you know where he kept it?"

"Lots of people did."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I knew where he kept it."

"Do you know how to fire a gun?"

"You point and you pull the trigger. It's not rocket science."

"Do you know where it is now?"

"No," I told her. "I have no idea."

So she went back to the beginning. She went over every detail again and yet again. She approached my story from different angles, searching for inconsistencies, the tiny lies that every guilty person tells. "What time did you go to bed? How about your wife? What did you talk about? Tell me about the argument. Tell me what happened at the hospital. What else did your father say before he left? How about the phone call? Let's go over that again."

On and on, for hours. "How did you get along with your father? What was your financial arrangement in regards to the practice? Were you partners or were you an employee? Did you have a key to his house? Did he lock his office at night? How about his desk?"

I asked for water and Mills poured a glass from the pitcher. I took a small sip.

"When did you first learn about the will?"

"I knew he was leaving me the house, but I knew nothing else about it until I met with Hambly."

"Your father never discussed it?"

"He was a secretive man, especially about money."