Page 100 of Night Songs

Tennessee.

The land of my birth, and the place I’d fallen in love. I smelled the earthy sweetness in the air, and a sense of organic belonging sprouted inside me, like a native plant recognizing its soil.

HereI would find answers.

A few hours later, we arrived in Nashville.

I walked eight blocks in the warm evening to the closest public library and found an open computer. I searched my name and the word “missing.” The first entry was a local news article about a man with my last name murdering a woman with my first name.

I imagined myself splitting into two, one part of me stabbing the other with a kitchen knife.

There were no relevant results. The news wasn’t out yet.

I found a taxi outside the library, and we streaked west past the city, where the hills rolled and the houses became small farms.

After about an hour, we pulled up to a nondescript cattle gate surrounded by green. I lowered the window and pressed the button on a communication box.

“How can I help you?” came a garbled voice.

“My name is Rhea Larsen. I’d like to speak to Mr. Redd.”

There was silence on the other end, and then: “I’m sorry, that won’t be possible.”

“Please, I’ve come a long way, if you could just ask him—”

“Ma’am, this is private property. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the police.”

I could feel the driver studying me in the rearview, calculating how he might dislodge this crazy woman from his car. I had made him my unwitting accomplice.

“Look, I’m Belle Powers’s daughter. And I really need to speak to him. It’s very important. A matter of life and death.”

Silence again. Then: “All right. Come on through.”

We meandered down a long drive before coming upon a house at the end that was modern and sparkling against the farmland surrounding it.

Clayton met me in the front entry in cream seersucker, and when he smiled, his forehead remained taut and shining. He looked older than when I last saw him, but he was remarkably well preserved for a man in his early eighties.

“Well, if it isn’t Rhea Larsen,” he said.

I smiled back uncertainly. “Thank you for letting me in. I’m sorry for dropping by like this, but you haven’t returned any of my calls, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m the one who should apologize. I had no ideayou were trying to get in touch with me. I don’t really handle my own phone anymore—I rely on my assistant for that. She should have given me your messages.”

I watched him take me in head to toe, and I rushed to say, “I’m sorry for being such a mess—I spent the night on the train.”

He cocked an eyebrow, then waved it away. “Are you all right? You said it was a serious matter?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. I just need to speak with you about something.”

He nodded. “I was just about to have my lunch. You can join me.”

On the back patio, a table was set with barbecued chicken and vegetables grilled whole.

“So how can I help you, dear?”

“I was hoping you could answer some questions about my mother.”

He nodded. “I assumed that’s why you came.” He put his fork down and folded his hands. “What do you want to know?”