The Late Matthew Brown. Paul Ketzle

untouched in a year. “Lose it and you’re starting over from scratch.”

      “I’ve got to get some help from someone. What about the new girl? What’s her name? Jane. Kate. The blonde.”

      “Everyone’s pretty overwhelmed right now, but maybe you could find someone to pick up your slack. Anyway, you should probably learn their names before you start asking for favors.”

      “I’m not sure they know mine. Lord knows they don’t trust me.”

      “They’re just still getting used to you.”

      “They should know by now. I’m not the enemy. At least you know that. Besides, I come from a long line of cowards.”

      “They’re protective is all.”

      “What are they protecting?”

      “They’ll get used to you,” he said, without conviction, and surged out the door. “Don’t worry.”

      four

      Outside Hero’s room, a pile of mutilated stuffed animals was growing. To the stacks of billowy entrails and tattered appendages she’d added the comforters, the lamps, the floral picture frames—every item I’d selected especially for her. She’d been nice enough to ask for permission to change things around, which I’d granted. I was surprised, though, by the swiftness of her response. Her quick resolution to demolish everything I had done. I secretly admired her certainty of purpose.

      I knocked on her door and waited through a prolonged pause before her cheerful voice told me to come in. I found her sitting on her floor, wading in a sea of fluff and balled up T-shirts and scattered magazines and books. Two comically tall pigtails were affixed to the top of her head.

      “Up to no good, I see?”

      “Always,” she grinned. These gestures were hard to read. I’d been taken in before, thinking that she was starting to warm to me, only to be blindsided a moment later. Clearly, she was still sizing me up, just as I was trying to understand her. She seemed to be making more progress.

      “What would you do if you had to keep someone in jail you thought was innocent?”

      “Another study, is it?”

      “Would you try to work within the system to bring them justice or would you quit in protest, hoping to effect a change from the outside?” She picked up a notebook from somewhere under the foam of cotton and drew out a pencil from her hair.

      “Or I could just go to work and do my job. Why do I have to be a crusader for justice?”

      She frowned. “You aren’t serious.”

      “See. This is why I try not to get involved with the inmates. Lots of second-guessing. Who needs that kind of stress?”

      “Still,” she said, tapping the pencil on the notebook, “you could pretend to be a noble figure, for the sake of your daughter, at least.”

      “Then not measure up and risk disappointment?”

      “I’m not sure I’m capable of more. Indulge me.”

      She tapped the page with the pencil, then pushed it aside to pick up another toy. She ran a seam ripper around the neck of a rainbow-colored rabbit and pulled off its head.

      “Is that necessary?”

      She shrugged, tossing the head to the floor. “You’re stalling.”

      “My daughter is slaughtering defenseless toys. What parent wouldn’t be concerned? What would your psychiatrist say?”

      “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

      “As much as I’d love to sit here and debate these complex moral questions, I have to go. I’m late.”

      “Hot date?”

      “Just a function.”

      “A date is a function. Business or pleasure?”

      “Now, what possible motivation would I have to tell you that?”

      At this, she just grinned.

      “I’ll only be a couple of hours,” I said. “Tops.”

      “Don’t think this gets you off the hook,” she said as I closed the door behind me. “I’ll expect your answer by bedtime.”

      Tonight, I was expected to attend the A&M’s fundraising campaign kickoff cocktail party for its new Criminology Building. Launched in partnership with the Westlind Corporation, the School of Criminology was hoping to find donors to help it pay for the other half of this state-of-the-art structure, which would come complete with high-tech crime labs, as well as endowing at least two new chairs and establishing three new criminology programs. I had drawn the short straw to see who’d have to be the requisite departmental public face.

      By the time I arrived, small clusters in formal attire loitered around the buffet table, a smorgasbord stretching across the width of the lawn, open bars at each end. Servers in tall white cowboy hats assisted from behind the tables. The mosquitoes were out in force, swirling thick about in the air like clouds of dust. They followed close on the heels of a storm that had left the ground still soggy, water pooling upon the tables, the chairs, everything. The runoff flowed along the yard’s gradual slope, out to its edge, where it dropped off precipitously into a dense ravine, cluttered with brambles and vine.

      I stood beside the edge, captivated by the falling water, nursing a mint julep. The light was slipping quickly from the landscaped yard, and the young black men in white tuxedos, mostly students from the college, were setting up torches to fend off the encroaching dark.

      A short man with a shiny bald head greeted everyone with a smile as we came in. This was the president of the A&M, Walter “Wally” Alvarez, and it was his job, like mine, to be here, to schmooze with potential donors and alums. It was his primary responsibility and greatest qualification. You’d think he knew everyone, for his warmth and good cheer. He had approached me with a bubbling smile, a fierce handshake and a gentle lead toward the bar, all before I’d had the chance to introduce myself, having never met him before in my life.

      Through the dusk and flickering torchlight, I saw a woman approaching. She was a washed out silhouette, but her familiar step, the confident swagger, the glass of wine carelessly tipping—I knew long before she come into the light who it was.

      “Starting a second career as a philanthropist, Janice?” I said.

      “Not counting it out,” she said, arriving with a grin. “I have fond memories of my own college days, as you well know. No amount is too great to give.”

      “But you’re cheap. And poor.”

      “True. But that’s not how I choose to live. One of the great perks of being both a writer and professor is schwag, and I take full advantage when I can. Especially when food is involved. Yesterday, someone offered me a week-long hunting package.”

      “You don’t hunt, either.”

      “You’re never too old to start a new hobby. I have an irresistible fondness for listening to dull banalities given as speeches.”

      “Not as much as they like giving them.”

      “Secretly, though, I’m conducting research on the political fundraiser.”

      “You seem to be misinformed. They’re just raising money for the college. You know political rallies make me physically ill.”

      Janice handed me her wine glass, then pawed through her purse until she found a cigarette and lighter.

      “See that man over there?” she said, exhaling thick smoke and gesturing toward the milling crowd by the bar, faces losing distinction through the dark and distance. “That’s Hugh Gillespie, state senator from Woodrow County. A real firecracker, as they say. Second most powerful man in the State house, which is impressive, since he never seems to be