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It takes an interminable amount of time for Taylor to bring over a rusted milking stool from the corner. Then Marjorie drags out the process of settling into it as if she can delay whatever she has to say as long as possible. Even once she’s situated it takes her another full minute to summon her resolve to speak again.

“Wade was a nice fella. Real studious-like.”

“So you knew him?” Simone asks.

“Yeah, from the diner. He would come in here and there like Larry and the other boys. Sometimes just to study, or sit in a booth and scribble in this little notebook of his for hours.”

“Did he come to Doughboy’s with Larry? Were they friends?”

“I wouldn’t say friends exactly, they were cordial enough, seems to me, but they never sat together. Or at least so I seen. Wade would sometimes make himself scarce when the other boys came in. Even if we were in the middle of yapping it up, which we did a lot. We liked some of the same movies—couldn’t get enough of Westerns. He even asked me to go to the movies with him once. If you can believe that. Guess he forgot we were hardly going to be sitting together at the theater. But I think he may a had a little crush on me.” Her lips curve in a small, private smile that belongs to a much younger woman.

“I’ll bet Larry didn’t like that,” Simone says, leading the witness, or trying to. They’re running out of time to get somewhere.

“No, he sure didn’t. Larry wanted to keep me all for himself.” Pride swells in Marjorie’s words.

“So did the two of them ever argue about that, or anything?” Simone can practically feel the answers in front of them, waiting for her to reach out and grab them.

“Not that I’d seen but…” Marjorie speaks so softly that Taylor and Simone stumble closer, crowding over the old woman’s slouched frame. “But that night…” The way she looks up at them, her eyes darting from Taylor to Simone in panic, reminds Simone of all the times Langston knew he was about to get caught doing something he shouldn’t and searched in vain for a way out. “Something happened.”

“What… what happened?” Simone tries to remain soft and coaxing, but there are painful dents in her palm where she’s pressed her nails against the skin.

“They said it was an accident. And hand to the Lord, I don’t know any more than that. Never wanted to. That’s the God’s honest truth. Larry showed up here with Roger. That was Larry’s best friend, thick as thieves, real charmer, but like a snake is charming. All innocent until it decides to bite you. Had a German shepherd like that once. Would lick my hand every time I fed him, and then one day nearly bit my arm off when I tried to take his food dish away. And then they just show up here practically in the middle of the night. I woke up because I heard rocks on my window, and for a second I thought it was like something outta a romantic movie. Larry showing up to surprise me. Well, it was a surprise, all right. He and Roger were all sweaty even though spring was taking its sweet time and it was still below fifty. He told me he needed my help. And stupid me, my first thought was to be flattered. Larry needed me.” The words tumble out as if Marjorie’s afraid they’ll evaporate if she doesn’t get rid of them fast enough, but then they screech to a halt. She’s silent again, breathing heavy.

“What exactly did they need your help with?”

Marjorie’s strong hands shake so badly, Simone reaches for them without hesitation, and the woman, who seems to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes, grips it tightly, as if the connection can keep her anchored here and not in whatever scene she’s being yanked away to relive.

Simone has to lean in to hear but can’t make out what she’s saying. She worries they’ve fully lost her to the past. Especially when she realizes that Marjorie seems to be talking directly to Larry.

“I helped you with that terrible business. And all I wanted was for you to help me when I needed it. I was in a bad way, because of you I might add, and you just ignored me. I could have gotten a better doctor to take care of me if you’d sent the money like you promised. It wasn’t like you didn’t have it. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t there for you. But you didn’t have an iota of decency to write me back. Fifty years later, and I’m still waiting. I kept your secret anyway, even after all of that. God help me, I’m such a fool.”

Sobs overtake Marjorie’s body, an emotional outburst that can only be described as an unleashing. Simone isn’t sure how to proceed beyond offering this stranger a perfunctory pat on the back and some space to pull herself together. After a minute, when the crying dies down, Simone seizes what she feels may be her only chance to find out what Marjorie knows.

“What did you do for Larry? What’s the big secret?” She has no choice but to keep pressing. She also senses Marjorie wants to unburden herself. This woman has clearly held a corrosive secret for fifty years. The deep lines marking her hands and face might not be carved so much by age as by guilt and fear.

Simone hasn’t taken a full inhale in the last five minutes. Marjorie’s eyes lock on the field again. She gestures to a towering sycamore tree in the near distance, as beautiful and peaceful as can be. “I let them bury the body. Right over there.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN ALEX

The western omelet he’s making for breakfast, his grandfather’s favorite, is meant to butter Poppy up, but somehow Alex managed to screw this up too. A thick brown film coats one side of the eggs. Alex flips that side down on the plate and adds some sad-looking strawberries, before he goes to the back staircase to call up yet again.

“You coming down, Poppy?”

He listens closely for the loud grunt that he takes as a yes and hears his grandfather hobbling around in his bedroom suite. Alex has no idea what he’ll be dressed in—Simone has told him stories from her daily visits about Poppy’s inappropriate attire (including his full duck-hunting regalia one morning), but they agree this is a battle that they don’t need to fight. It’s one last arena for Poppy to declare his independence, with low stakes.

Alex hasn’t been by to see his grandfather for a couple weeks. He’s armed himself with all sorts of rationalizations and excuses for this, all of them essentially the mental version of waving his hands to distract himself from the truth. He’s been avoiding his grandfather because he’s been so angry at what a dumpster fire Poppy let the company become, and also because he can’t bear to face his continued deterioration. There are probably other reasons too, but those two are plenty.

Today, Alex’s hand was forced. For one, because Simone is MIA and can’t do her daily check-in. She and Taylor are on some sort of day trip—yoga retreat? Spa? He wasn’t listening well enough when she sprung these plans on him, as he was immediately focused on trying to work out how he was going to miss work to be here, at least until the occupational therapist arrived. The second reason is that Alex has to talk to Poppy about selling the company. He has no idea how much Poppy will be able to take in or understand, and presuming it’s enough to grasp the situation (losing the company he spent fifty-plus years building), he can picture his grandfather going absolutely ballistic. Alex doesn’t have much choice but to find out.

Whatever Poppy’s mental state, Alex could never live with himself moving forward with this decision without trying to get some sort of buy-in, or at least a basic awareness, so he’s going to pump his grandfather full of his morning meds and hope for the best. Or if not the best, some bearable outcome… like not being thrown out of the house.

Poppy is a sight when he finally shuffles into the kitchen. He’s dressed, improbably, in a classic three-piece suit—charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes—the kind he used to wear daily to Hartwell headquarters. His tie, a deep burgundy silk, hangs over his shoulders like a scarf. He has random tufts of thin hair sprouting in unruly patches around his head. Purple blotches mark the mottled skin on his face and neck, a flaky crust nests in the corners of his mouth. He smells bad too, in a way that Alex feels terrible for noticing and can’t place. It’s not BO, but something more akin to rot, a sourness that perhaps no amount of scrubbing will ever alleviate. Poppy has always prided himself on his impeccable presentation, never a hair out of place or so much as a loose button. If people can’t trust you to look presentable, then how can they trust you with their business. Alex is, at the moment, having a hard time trusting his heart not to break.

“Morning, Poppy. How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough, I think. Where’s Simone?” Poppy looks around like someone is playing a trick on him. He’s found a monkey where a rabbit should be.

“She had an appointment today. You’re stuck with me.”