Maybe he should, says a voice in my head. You couldn’t have fucked up much worse than you did.

But once Forrest told me what he did about Caitlin, I had no choice in what followed. I don’t think I even made a conscious decision to kill him. At some level I realized that Caitlin had known she was pregnant but had decided to spare me that pain by omitting that information from her last message to me. And in some unquantifiable fraction of time after that realization flashed through my brain, every nerve and muscle fiber in my body fired.

The buzz and clang of the cellblock door don’t signify anything at first, or else I think it’s my imagination. But then the clack of expensive shoe heels sounds between the cells, and Shadrach Johnson appears before my cubicle.

“How are you doing, Mayor?” he asks, straightening the lapels of his expensive suit.

I remain on my cot and say nothing. Whatever Shad has to tell me will be calculated to hurt me in some way, so I might as well sit and take it and give him the least possible amount of pleasure during the process.

“I just gave a press conference on the courthouse steps,” he announces. “Two Jackson TV stations were there, a half-dozen print reporters, and producers from the BET network and Court TV.”

“Congratulations. Next stop, CNN.”

“With any luck. Anyway, I informed those outlets that the prosecution of your father for the murder of Viola Turner will proceed as scheduled in three months. March first on the court docket—just in time for Spring Pilgrimage.”

Despite my familiarity with Shad’s boundless ambition, this surprises me. “I thought my father had been placed in protective custody by the FBI.”

Shad gives me a knowing look. “I don’t know what kind of strings you pulled with the Bureau, but we both know that they can’t grant him immunity on a state murder charge. They may find some way to shake him and Garrity loose from that dead state trooper, but not even the president can make Viola Turner go away.”

“So you’re a happy man. I really appreciate you coming by with the bad news.”

The DA shrugs. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. This is going to be a high-profile case, Penn. Historic.”

“Maybe you can kick-start your mayoral campaign for the special election they’ll be having after they throw me out.”

Shad snorts with what sounds like derision. “I’ll be shooting a lot higher than that, after this case is over. But that brings up the real reason I came. The Lusahatcha DA will probably want to try you in his county. Since they’re in our judicial district, you’d normally get one of our circuit judges. But since you know them all so well, the attorney general will probably bring in an outside judge. My office could prosecute your case, but I haven’t yet decided whether to take it on. Given our history, the AG may decide to appoint a special prosecutor.”

“That must really rankle, Shad. You’d probably rather convict me than my father.”

He looks philosophical. “A week ago, I’d have said yes. But given the issues in your father’s case? No. You killed a dirty cop who’s going to be looking like a world-class dirt bag by tomorrow. I’m happy to leave you to the special prosecutor. By the way, my condolences on Caitlin’s passing.”

I can’t tell if he’s feeding on my pain or hoping I’ll give him some sort of absolution. “Seriously?” I whisper. “You do realize that if you hadn’t grabbed onto Lincoln Turner’s accusation and turned it into a three-ring circus, she’d still be alive?”

“That’s absurd,” he snaps, but he knows it’s true. “Caitlin was killed by her own ambition. You know that as well as I do.”

“Get out of here, Shad. While you still can.”

His dark face cycles through several changes of expression I can’t quite read. Then he says, “I have something else to tell you, but you’ll have to come closer if you want to hear it.”

He’s worried about the closed-circuit cameras. “Not interested,” I tell him.

“It’s about Forrest Knox and your father.”

Forrest and my father . . . What could Shad know about Knox and my father? Whatever it is, I’d rather find out now than sit here wondering about it for the next few hours. After a long sigh, I get to my feet and move up to the bars. Shad’s eyes become clearer as I get closer, and in them I see a strange, hyperexcited light.

“I’m telling you this,” he says in a near whisper, “because you’re one of the few southern white males I’ve met who’s capable of appreciating irony. Two days ago, Forrest Knox came to me and told me he was either going to kill your father or let him go free. If Dr. Cage went free, he said, I was to drop all charges and leave the crime unsolved. If I didn’t, Knox would destroy me. I don’t know if that bastard had the power to do it, but he talked like he did.”

Shad’s eyes flicker in the shadows between us. He’s watching me for signs of emotion. “Do you see?” he whispers. “If you’d let Forrest live today, I’d have had no choice but to drop the charges against your father. And you would never have been charged with killing him. That almost beggars belief, doesn’t it?”

I can tell from Shad’s voice that he’s telling the truth. And what he said fits with what I know. Forrest probably went to see Shad before he offered me the deal for my father’s safety. He wanted to be sure the district attorney could and would kill the case against Dad. Which means that Forrest meant to stand by that deal, if he believed I could compromise my principles and do the same. This terrible irony sinks into me like the spear I drove into Forrest’s throat, and this time I can’t hide the pain.

Shad’s eyes devour my anguish the way death row convicts in solitary drink in their allotted hour of sunlight. “Strange, isn’t it?” he asks. “I’ve dedicated so many hours to paying you back in kind, and in the end I didn’t have to do anything. You’ve destroyed yourself. It’s positively Greek, isn’t it?”

As he stands mulling over my fate, the irrational rage that possessed me a few hours ago lights up my nerves like copper wires, and my muscles fill with blood. Shad perceives the change, but he doesn’t recognize it for what it is.

“I never thought I’d see you like this,” he goes on, a distinct note of pleasure in his voice, like that of an oenophile drinking a rare wine. “Not in my wildest fantasies. Your father, yes. But you? . . . Never. Just goes to show you. I suppose your mother will have to raise your daughter. Unless your sister takes her back to England. I only hope Mrs. Cage lives long enough to—”

Without even thinking I grab Shad behind the neck and snatch his head against the bars with a muted clang. The security footage of this assault might tack attempted murder to my charge sheet, but at this point, what does it matter?

As Shad screams and tries to jerk himself free, the other residents of the cellblock shriek like crazed zoo monkeys. Before Shad can get away, I bring up my right fist and drive it against his skull with all the follow-through I can muster.

The impact hurls him against the opposite cell, where another prisoner kicks him in the back, knocking him to the floor. When he rolls over, I see pure terror in his eyes. Something crunched when I struck him—either my hand or his skull—and rather than try to get up, he covers his face with his hands and lies there shuddering.

Ten seconds later, two white deputies rush into the block and help Shad to his feet while a bigger black one charges my cell with a Taser. I back against the wall with both open hands held high. The deputy roars something at me, but his warnings are drowned by those of Shad Johnson, who’s now yelling that I’m going to get the death penalty for killing Forrest Knox, just like my dad will for killing Viola.

My fellow inmates’ cacophony has reached such a frenzied ecstasy that I expect a half-dozen armor-suited deputies to flood in and blast us with pepper spray, but no one else appears. The two deputies with Shad help him limp to the steel door, while the black one remains in front of my cell. Just before exiting the block, Shad turns back to me, his face dark with rage and shame.