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shot,” I whispered. “She refused to give in to greed, and she paid with her life. I watched it with my own eyes.”
    If you help me …
    Why should I do anything for this deviant? He was an extremist, nothing more than an urban terrorist using Scripture and sick-in-the-head means to justify his actions.
    You’ll get to see her again and earn your way back into our family circle …
    The words were barbed arrows dipped into the disease of deceit. They had no effect on me. I was inoculated against the stuff.
    I read the note a second time and a third.
    See? No problem.
    I folded the paper and tucked it into my pocket along with the emptycartridge. The Fauxbergé went under the seat. I turned the key in the ignition, adjusted my mirrors, backed out of the parking space, and threaded my way through Saturday’s late-afternoon traffic toward Black’s.

    “Pop quiz.”
    “Not right now.”
    “This one’s easy, a simple true or false.”
    I surveyed the shop. “You want true or false, Diesel? Here ya go. I told my brother not to leave before I got back.”
    “True.”
    “So where is he?”
    “Last I looked, he was there at that table.”
    I followed his pointing finger to a lone salad plate beside a glass of melting ice.
    “He’s real down to earth,” Diesel continued. “One cool cat. He was telling me all about this latest song he’s been working on, but then Samantha came in.”
    “Sammie was here?”
    “Ohhh, yeah. Hard to miss. If you don’t mind me saying so, she’s got a nice—”
    “Stop, Diesel. Think. Was this five minutes ago? Ten?”
    “Been busy cleaning, boss. I don’t know. Maybe they headed back to the studio. Isn’t she Johnny Ray’s manager or something like that?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Beautiful
and
talented.” He gave a low whistle. “How old is she?”
    “Too old for you. Shouldn’t you be working?”
    He poured water into the coffee machine. “Shoot, if I showed up on my parents’ doorstep with Samantha on my arm, my dad would fall all over himselftrying to welcome her in. He’s got it bad for women, young or old. Maybe it’s wrong to say, but that’s a fact. My mom was barely nineteen when they got married.”
    I dialed my brother, got his voice mail: “If you would like to leave a message …”
    Diesel said, “Would you want a serious relationship with a nineteen-year-old?”
    “No, I would not.” I slapped the phone shut. “Thank you very much.”
    “Me neither.”
    “Wait. I wasn’t—”
    He carried on while scooping coffee into the brew basket. “Guess Dad had to find out the hard way. He and Mom, I’ve never heard them raise their voices at each other, but it’s this constant tug of war, all these unspoken politics. What about your parents?”
    “Don’t have many memories of them together.”
    He shot me a glance. Turned away. The whole country had seen the re-enactment of my mother’s death played out on my segment of
The Best of Evil
, but most people still seemed uneasy mentioning it around me. What? Like I had to pretend it never happened?
    He fidgeted. “What was your mom like anyway?”
    “She was great.” I rolled my neck. “Very loving.”
    “And?”
    “Strong in a quiet way.” My hand brushed the old cartridge in my pocket. “And she loved her morning coffee. She cleaned houses to put food on the table for us.”
    “Johnny Ray’s told me stories.”
    “About my mom?” I wheeled on him. “Since when?”
    “I … I don’t know.”
    “Listen. My family’s none of your business. And while we’re at it, tell mewhy your dad’s been making threats against me and Johnny. What’s that all about?”
    “That’s crazy. Dad’s never even met you guys.”
    “But he’s in Nashville, isn’t he? Gimme one good reason why.”
    “I am their only child, if that counts. He and Mom drove down to visit.” Diesel kicked at the rubber floor mat. “Forget I said anything. I was just trying to be a friend.”
    “This is work.