I kept wondering what I’d do if a cop pulled me over. He’d see the bloodstained interior and the purple mass that was my left eye. I’d have to run. There’d be no other choice besides killing him.

Returning to Orson’s house, I backed the Cadillac into his driveway and parked beside the white Lexus. I agonized over leaving the car out here when the town would be waking within the hour. But there was no alternative. I needed to get Orson inside, clean myself up, and figure out what the hell I was going to do.

Reclining on a floral-print couch in Orson’s den, I dialed Cynthia’s home number. It was a sunny Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, and the sunbeams angled brilliantly through the blinds into the den, a scantly furnished room with a large television in a pine cabinet and a tower of CDs standing in the corner. Orson lay across from me on a matching couch, his hands still cuffed behind his back, feet bound with a bicycle lock I’d found in his study.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Cynthia.”

“Andy.” I detected undeniable shock in her voice, and it concerned me. “Where are you?” she asked. “Everyone’s looking for you.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“The Winston-Salem Police Department called my office twice yesterday.”

“Why are they looking for me?”

“You know about your mother?”

She was going to regret asking that.

“What about her?”

“Oh, Andy. I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“A neighbor found her dead in her house three days ago. On Wednesday, I think. Andy…”

“What happened?” I let my voice quake. How could an innocent man explain not crying when he learns his mother has been murdered? Even the guilty manage tears.

“They think she was murdered.”

I dropped the phone and produced a few sobs. After a moment, I brought the receiver to my ear again. “I’m here,” I said, sniffling.

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Andy, the police want to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“I um …I think…” She sighed. “This is tough, Andy. There’s a warrant for your arrest.”

“What in the world for?”

“Your mother’s murder.”

“Oh no, no, no, no—”

“And I know you didn’t do it. I believe you. But the best thing to do is just talk to the police and clear this mess up. Where are you? Let me have someone come get you.”

“Thank you for everything, Cynthia.” I hung up the phone, thinking, They had to find her eventually. Orson, you f**ked me again. I stared at my brother on the sofa. He’d be waking soon. Until you fix this, you don’t have a home. In fact, you might never go home again.

Orson awoke in the early afternoon, strapped naked to a wooden chair in his den, handcuffs securing his arms behind the chair back, and a length of rope binding his legs to the chair legs. I’d shut the door, closed the blinds, and turned the television up so loud, the set buzzed.

Sitting on the couch, I waited until he’d regained sufficient clarity of mind.

“You with me?” I shouted. He said something, but I couldn’t hear over the television. “Speak up!” I could tell he was still disoriented.

“Yes. What’s…” I saw it all come back to him—the fight, the trunk, Walter. He smiled, and I knew he was with me. Taking the remote control from the couch, I muted the television.

Stepping back, I cut the volume. “I think you’re lying.”

“Andy,” he gasped, “my videos, my photographs, everything I used to blackmail you—it’s all out there.”

“Where out there? In the cabin?”

“Take me to Wyoming, and I’ll show you.”

“I guess you like being burned.”