Billy made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. “She's living in your house, Judah. She's wearing your— “ he gestured vaguely, encompassing something Judah had apparently not kept entirely private, “—whatever. The whole town calls her yours.” He set his glass down. “She's going to find out. The only question is whether it comes from you or from something else.”
The something else hung in the room.
Judah looked at him. “Hall.”
“Still at the Prosperity Inn.” Billy kept his voice easy. “Cash. Still loose questions, still scattered. But he's been back to Thibodaux twice. And—” a moment, brief, “—he came to the church.”
Silence.
“I know,” Judah said.
“You know.”
“He spoke to Mercy.” His jaw did something. Brief. “I was there for part of it.”
Billy picked up his glass again. Looked at the bourbon. “And?”
“She told him nothing useful. She doesn't know anything useful.”
“Yet,” Billy said.
Judah's eyes came up.
Billy held up one hand, palm out. “I'm just doing the math,” he said. “She's smart. She noticed the flyer before I got to it. She asked me about the cherry inside of a week.” He paused. “She asked me what it meant, man.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” He smiled, but it didn't reach anything. “She's not stupid. She's also not asking questions she doesn't already half know the answer to.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “The Fontenot thing is still out there. Curtis talked before your guys got to him. Not much, but some.” He turned the glass. “And Hall is the kind of man who collects halves until they make a whole. Fucking annoying but that’s who he is.”
The study was quiet. Outside, the oaks were doing nothing in the dead still heat, the moss hanging motionless. A bird flew past the window.
“Hargrove's going to want the next event confirmed,” Billy said, shifting. “October. He mentioned the girl from New Orleans. The Melancon connection.”
“I heard.”
“You going to be there?”
Judah looked at the window Billy had climbed through. At the trees outside. At the still branches. He didn’t wish to bethere.
He didn’t wish to be anywherenearthere.
It had been like that for the past thirteen years.
“I'll be there,” he said.
Billy watched him. “She'll be in your house in October,” he said. “Your bed. Your table.” A pause. “Your name, the way the town's yapping about it.”
“I know what she'll be.”
“Do you.” Billy stood, downing the remains of his glass in one long mouthful. He winced and continued, “Well. I see you have it all figured out then.” He said the words but the words didn’t fit whathe said. He was still grimacing from the burn the whiskey left behind — not entirely in an unpleasant way. “That’s some good stuff.” He pointed the finger at the bottle, blowing out a steady breath. “Anyway. Just keep in mind — I know you’re Mr. Have-it-figured-out, but Hargrove sees her at the October event, he's going to have some choice words with you about this investment.”
The wordinvestmentrefused to be absorbed by the walls of the room.
“You are not meant tokeep her,” Billy said more silently.
Judah stood.
He didn't say anything. He crossed to the side table and poured his own drink and stood with it, not drinking. His back was to Billy. The suffering Christ stretched across his shoulder blades, the burning garden, all of it still and dark under the fabric.
