Description: Chapter One Randa couldn''t move. She could feel her weight in the chair and it was the only thing keeping her upright. How long was she going to have to stay here? It was three o''clock in the morning and she had to be at work by nine. Or did she? Was this a legitimate excuse to take the day off? Did she have a right to mourn? And would everyone see it as mourning, or merely as the final chapter in a neurotic obsession? She had felt uncomfortable at the paper ever since last summer. She knew a lot of people had bought the self-serving pile of crap Cam had spread around, in which she came off as a psychopath. If she told them about the phone call, would they even believe her? How far "out there" did everyone think she was? A question that had plagued her life. And the other question. How far out there was she? "How long did you say you''ve known Mr. Landry?" It came from the older one, a doughy, middle-aged man wearing a shirt the color of Dijon mustard. Neither of them looked anything like she would have expected a detective to look. (I don''t know a "Mr. Landry." Mr. Landry is someone''s Political Science teacher. I know Cam.) "Seven years. Or eight." Then added, "I haven''t seen him in a long time." She didn''t know whether that was relevant or not. It was certainly relevant to her. They had made her identify the body. A granite-faced man from the coroner''s office had lifted the sheet, while a uniformed cop had supported her by the elbow in case she collapsed. Apparently a fifteen-story fall onto the concrete sidewalk had yielded all sorts of ugliness. She''d have to take their word for it. All she had seen were Cam''s eyes. Truth be told, they were all she had ever noticed when she looked at Cam. She noticed everyone''s eyes, but Cam''s were unlike any she''d ever seen. An ephemeral blue, the color of jeans that have faded just right. But it wasn''t the color that gave them their haunting quality, it was the depth. A depth that knew no context, like the light inside a prism. Somewhere near the bottom, a crystal base of hope managed to send a trace of itself to the surface. Along the way it was clouded over by layers of pain and sadness and bitter defeat. That was what she had always seen in Cam''s eyes. The hope and the bitterness, locked in mortal combat. Even now, she knew something inside her would be forever scarred by the outcome of that battle. She glanced at her reflection in the dirty glass partition. Her eyes seemed to be sinking into her face. They looked, as her mother would have put it, like "two little pee-holes in the snow." She tucked a strand of thick blond hair behind her ear, as if that would help. Was thirty-five supposed to look this old? Had she looked so old this morning? God, why was she worrying about how she looked at a time like this? She braced herself as another angry wave of pain washed over her. How can this be real? How can Cam be dead? He''s outrun it for so long. Outrun what? What part of her was talking, and what was it talking about? She''d noticed lately (in the last year, maybe?) that there seemed to be this voice inside her head that would blow through, make some grand pronouncement, and disappear without the slightest desire to explain itself. "We''ve been trying to locate a relative to notify. Do you happen to know of anyone?" It came from the younger detective. His light brown hair had a waxy texture that made him look like a Ken doll. Randa shook her head. "They''re all dead." "No aunts, uncles, anything?" She could hear Cam''s voice: "Not unless you count those fucking inbred third cousins in Macon." She wondered if she should mention Jack. It wouldn''t help, but it would give them something to write in their reports, which might get her out of here sooner. "There''s a brother somewhere, but you won''t be able to find him. Cam''s been trying for years." The younger one clicked his ballpoint. "You know his name?" "Jack. It''s probably short for something, they all had fancy names." "They all who?" "Cam and his brothers." "And all the brothers are dead except this Jack?" "Yes." I wouldn''t hold out on you. I''m not trying to keep the corpse for a souvenir. "So where does this Jack live?" "Somewhere around Atlanta, the last anyone heard from him. But that was ten years ago." "And there''s absolutely no one else?" It seemed he was never going to let go of this until she told him something new. She tried to think. Who would have been called if she hadn''t shown up? The answer slammed into her head. She took a deep breath. "He has a girlfriend. Nora Dixon." A lying bitch from some back corner of hell who''d better not show her sorry ass in here until I''m long gone if you don''t want to add a homicide to your caseload. "I don''t know why she wasn''t there, I thought they were living together." She must have met someone who could do her career more good. "Wait a minute." The younger one again. "If she''s his girlfriend, who are you?" "I''ll be damned if I know." Out before she could censor it. She immediately hated herself for the venom she could hear in her voice. How could she be mad at Cam now? "What does that mean?" "I''m sorry," she said, not sure why she was apologizing. "We used to be friends." "Why''d you stop?" She looked up in time to see Detective Ken wink. Wonderful, now he was going to hit on her. Just what she needed. "I don''t see how that''s relevant." "Whoa . . ." He made a show of looking around the room. "Are we in court already? Time flies." Very cute. David Letterman is probably quaking in his Nikes. "What time did you say he called you?" The older one showed no sign of noticing the sparring. "Around one o''clock." "Could you be any more precise?" "One-oh-nine. Or nineteen. I remember a nine on the digital clock." "You remember a niiiiine?" Detective Ken dragged it out, imitating her accent. "What part of the South are y''all from?" The part where men talk to women the way you''re talking to me, which is why I left. "Georgia." She gave him the iciest look she could muster. Say "peach." I dare you. "Georgia," he said, in a tone that implied there was something remarkable about being from Georgia. He let it go at that. He seemed to be picking up on her unequivocal lack of interest. The other one raised an eyebrow. "Did you know Mr. Landry from Georgia?" "No. We met here. That was just . . . a coincidence." She trailed off, as she heard her father''s voice in her head. "Coincidence is a fool''s defense." Why she thought she needed to defend herself was another question. Under all the paranoia, memories of Cam were starting to emerge, shooting at her like darts, too fast to dodge. She was surprised at what was coming back. It wasn''t a montage of great moments. It was a montage of trivia. Holidays. Dinner parties, such as they were. (If there were at least four people present and they used breakable glasses, Cam called it a dinner party.) Concerts, everything from Bruce Springsteen at the Sports Arena to some don''t-quit-your-day-job folksinger in the fifty-seat auditorium in the back of the guitar store. Getting lost everywhere. (Neither of them had the sense of direction God gave a banana squash.) Stopping to get directions from an old guy in a Shriner''s hat who''d hopped into the car and pored over the Triple-A map with them without a second''s thought about who they might be. (Funny, how people always assume they know what danger looks like.) Late-night dinners in funky little coffee shops. The one with the full bar. A grilled-cheese sandwich and a margarita, Cam''s idea of heaven. Combing outdoor flea markets for antique Mickey Mouses. Following Cam through cramped, musty bookstores while he piled her arms with books she couldn''t live a fulfilling life without reading. Tiny moments of unprompted warmth. A hug from nowhere, a present for no reason. Meaningless arguments that had turned vicious and personal, only to wind their way back to banality and dissolve in some black joke or a simple change of subject. Sitting here now, she couldn''t remember the big events. (Had there even been any?) Instead, she just felt the time. All the mundane, directionless time that makes up a friendship. A friendship. Was that what it had been? A friendship that had been hanging over her head like an oppressive cloud for more years than she cared to acknowledge. What would happen to that cloud now? Did Cam''s death mean that it was gone, or that she was stuck with it forever? "So when he called you, he didn''t say anything that indicated . . ." Detective Mustard Shirt groped for a kinder, gentler way to put it. "That he was about to jump out the window? No. And I don''t know why he''d call me to come over if he was planning to kill himself before I could get there." "Are you saying you don''t think he jumped?" "You said his door was locked from the inside. Obviously he jumped. I''m just saying if you''re waiting for me to make any sense of this, we''re going to be here for a long time." "Had he been depressed lately?" "I don''t know. Like I said (if you''d been listening) I hadn''t seen him or talked to him in a year." If he''d been breathing, he''d been depressed lately. She''d never seen him go longer than a week without falling into a major funk. She had eventually learned to stop worr

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