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closing the door as he left but moving back to a position from which he could watch over us.
    “My name is John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator. I told your mother I would look into your case.”
    Daniels ignored my outstretched hand. Taking the seat across from me, he squinted and sneered. “You choose your words real careful, don’t you?”
    “I try to,” I said, dropping my hand and sitting back down.
    “What you didn’t say was that my mama’s pig friend asked you to check me out so you could tell her I’m guilty.”
    “You’re smart enough to know that the more help you get, the better off you are.”
    Daniels laughed. “Yeah, right. Well, let me save you a lot of your freely given time. I did it. I remember doing it. And I’m glad I did it.” He didn’t look glad.
    “Look, I—”
    “So just leave it, huh? Just leave it and me be!”
    His voice rose enough at the end for the guard to come forward two steps. I shook my head, and the guard withdrew cautiously.
    Daniels’ expression was sullen, pouty. “Would it hurt anything,” I said, “for you to tell me what happened?”
    “You know, I don’t have to talk with you at all. I can just stand up and walk, anytime.”
    “I know. You can walk over to the officer there, who’ll take you back to protective custody or general population or wherever it is they stack you. Then you’ll wait for Rothenberg to try to grovel a reduction in charge. Maybe he can even parlay it into a sentence that’ll get you a shot at parole, like around the turn of the century.”
    “The fuck do you know about it?”
    “Not much. That’s why I’m here.”
    Daniels turned his face down a notch. “Look, you’re wastin’ your time. They got me. Every which way. My girl, my gun, fuckin’ roomful of witnesses. Shit, they put this one on TV, the show’d be canceled. No drama.”
    “I don’t think you’ve gotten the idea,” I said gently. “See, you’re supposed to tell me your side of it, then I dig around and—”
    “Aw, man, what kinda shit you slingin’? My side is their side. I done it, man. They got me and they know it. And no smilin’ Irish face gonna change that.”
    “William …” I started, but he had already stood and turned away from me, motioning to the guard that he was finished.
    As I rode the subway back into Boston, I tried to make up my mind about what I should do. Easiest was to call Murphy, tell him I had confirmed William’s guilt, then break the news of my exit to Mrs. Daniels. The more I thought about it, the less easy that path appeared. All I had done was read a few reports, talk with a disappointed defense attorney, and bungle a client interview. Not exactly a thorough, professional effort.
    On the other hand, I could spend three or four days chasing after the names in the report. Then I could check each one off as he or she substantiated what everybody but Mrs. Daniels believed. That her son shot Jennifer Creasey.
    While our train was stopped inexplicably in a tunnel, I decided to call Murphy and tell him the kid wouldn’t talk to me. Then Murphy could try to get Mrs. Daniels to persuade William again. If that failed, I’d be off the hook.
    I felt better and looked at my watch. Eleven-twenty. Plenty of time to pick up the car and visit before calling Murphy.
    “I don’t know if I like the green paper as well.” The roses were yellow, small but open flowers, sharp but widely spaced thorns. I bent over and laid them lengthwise to her.
    “Mrs. Feeney says the company that manufactured the white tissue went bust, and the new outfit would charge her fifty percent more for the white.”
    I smoothed the paper down. It crinkled. The old paper, the white, sort of whispered.
    Don’t worry about it, said Beth. What do you think you’re doing, working a toilet paper commercial?
    I laughed. I looked past her stone to the Daugherty plot. His monument was granite, not marble, and some of the blood from last March was still dried dark