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“You son of a bitch.”

“You know my mother. So in the letter you break up with him. You can’t tolerate such perversity. You urge him to get counseling.”

“He didn’t have child pornography.”

“The sheriff has locked away the collection.”

“Then either you or Boschvark’s people, someone at New World Technology, planted it the day José was murdered.”

“Your letter, with your prints and DNA on it, added to that box of filth, will lend credibility to the evidence of his sick mind.”

“No.”

“That’s not an option.”

“It’s my only option. No.”

“Here’s what you should consider while you think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it. I won’t do it.”

“Before you give me your final decision, understand that the sheriff has told no one about that collection. None of us wants to destroy Mr. Nochelobo’s reputation unless it’s absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, he was so persuasive that even now, after his death, people rally around his crusade as a memorial to him. We hope their passion fades. If it does, there’ll be no need to reveal his sexual attraction to children. In time, as the New World Technology project advances, his nasty collection and your letter will be destroyed. We won’t make it public out of meanness alone. It’s only insurance.”

“You’re disgusting, all of you.”

Bead consults his Rolex. “I have that dinner engagement.”

“Then go choke on something.”

“If you won’t write that letter, Vida, youwillbe evicted. Where will you go? How will you get the money that the endless litigation will require?”

She says nothing.

“If you won’t write the letter, Sheriff Montrose will feel a moral obligation to reveal the collection of kiddie porn and launch an investigation to learn if José, as a teacher, might have forced himself on any minors. I guarantee a few will come forward.”

He could have presented the copies of the forged property documents in a folder. There is no reason to deliver them in an assessor’s envelope with dated postage-meter tape, as though she received it in the mail. Unless ... Unless, once she has written the letter, after he has overpowered her—maybe with chloroform, an inner voice suggests—raped her while she’s unconscious, and staged her suicide, he can then scatter the envelope and its contents beside her corpse, to establish why she took her life. In the new Kettleton, there will be no investigation or autopsy.

With a note of desperation meant to convince him that the fight has gone out of her, she says, “I want to stay here. Have to stay.”

“Then back off.”

“And if I do, I’ll really be allowed to stay here?”

“I don’t have any use for this shitty place. No one does. Just keep yourself to yourself. Stay out of the way of the money train.”

“But do you promise? You swear?”

“I promise. I swear,” he lies.

She remembers the lascivious intent he revealed when he licked his lips. She sees sick desire in his stare, those eyes thecold, pale blue of Namibian smithsonite. His soul is harder than any gemstone.

She should have armed herself with her uncle’s pistol. She hadn’t imagined that Bead would be so reckless as to move directly to violence. She thought he’d come to level a warning at her and give her a few days to acquiesce. If that was his intention when he arrived, he has since decided on a different, more brutal resolution to the problem she presents.

“Come on, Vida. You’ve got nothing to gain by refusing, and everything to lose. Let’s write that letter and get on with our day. I don’t want to keep my dinner companions waiting.”

There are no dinner companions. His deceit is palpable.

The prospect of allowing him into her house is intolerable. Her options will be limited when he crosses the threshold.