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sights began to appear, my apprehension grew. I took

deep breaths and hoped that I would be able to talk

without bursting into tears.

I directed Beau to the Tate residence. It was one

of the larger homes in the Houma area, a two-and-ahalf-story Greek Revival with six fluted Ionic

columns set on pilastered bases a little out from the

edge of the gallery. It had fourteen rooms and a large

drawing room. Gladys Tate was proud of the decor in

her home and her art, and until Paul had built the

mansion for me, she had the finest house in our area. By the time we drove up, the sky had turned

ashen and the air was so thick with humidity, I

thought I could see droplets forming before my eyes.

The bayou was still, almost as still as it could be in

the eye of a storm. Leaves hung limply on the

branches of trees, and even the birds were depressed

and settled in some shadowy corners.

The windows were bleak with their curtains drawn closed or their shades down. The glass reflected the oppressive darkness that loomed over the swamps. Nothing stirred. It was a house draped in mourning, its inhabitants well cloistered in their private misery. My heart felt so heavy; my fingers trembled as I opened the car door. Beau reached over

to squeeze my arm with reassurance.

"Let's be calm," he advised. I nodded and tried

to swallow, but a lump stuck in my throat like swamp

mud on a shoe. We walked up the stairs and Beau

dropped the brass knocker against the plate. The

hollow thump seemed to be directed into my chest

rather than into the house. A few moments later, the

door was thrust open with such an angry force, it was

as if a wind had blown it. Toby stood before us. She

was dressed in black and had her hair pinned back

severely. Her face was wan and pale.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"We've come to speak with your mother and