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As she neared the Northport ferry terminal, she remembered that she needed to make one stop before going home. She checked her watch and saw that she still had one more chance to cross the passage that evening if she missed the next ferry. She turned off the highway and backtracked along Port des Morts Drive. At the end of the road, in a turnaround protected by giant evergreens, she parked outside the home of Peter Hoffman.

Hilary wasn't sure if he would talk to her. She knew the rumors about Mark and Glory had made their way through the county grapevine, and Hoffman was close to Delia Fischer. Then again, if there was anyone who had reason to hate Harris Bone and want to see him found, it was the father and grandfather of the people Harris had killed.

She got out of the Taurus and made her way down the muddy driveway. As she approached Hoffman's A-frame home, she saw an older man at work on the wide front porch. She smelled freshly cut wood, and she heard the banging of his hammer. He was on his knees, and he looked up when she reached the steps. He appeared to be nearly seventy years old, although his hair was jet black and appeared even blacker against his pale, deeply lined face. He got up slowly, favoring one leg. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black cargo pants with years of paint stains on the fabric. His eyes were suspicious.

'Mr Hoffman?' she asked. 'My name is—'

'I know who you are,' he interrupted her. 'What do you want, Mrs Bradley?'

'I'd like to talk to you.'

Hoffman's face tightened with discomfort. He sucked in a breath and straightened his back. He was a tall man. 'About Harris and the fire?'

'That's right.'

'There's nothing I can tell you,' he said.

'That may be true, but I'd really appreciate five minutes.'

Hoffman grunted and laid his hammer on the ledge of the front window. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the top of his toolbox and eased himself down on the front steps. Hilary sat down next to him. He unscrewed the top of the flask, and without offering her a drink, he took a long swallow. She could tell from the aroma of whiskey on his breath that he'd already been drinking before she arrived.

'I don't talk about the fire,' he said. 'You're wasting your time.'

'I understand.'

'I heard what happened to you, and I'm sorry about that, but that doesn't mean I'm going to help you.'

Hilary pulled aside the silk flap of her blouse far enough to show Hoffman the edge of the purple bruise discoloring her chest. 'This is from the accident last night. There are people around here who want to give me and my husband the death penalty, Mr Hoffman, even though Mark is guilty of nothing.'

'You believe that, do you?'

'I do.'

Hoffman took another drink. 'Trust is bullshit.'

'I know why you feel that way,' Hilary said.

'You don't know a thing.'

Hilary let her eyes drift around the huge, forested plot of land. The neat square of lawn and the carefully kept house felt like a tiny zone of order beating back chaos. 'Look, Mr Hoffman, I don't mean to bring up awful memories for you. All I want you to do is consider the possibility that my husband didn't kill Glory Fischer. You don't have to believe it the way I do. You don't even have to believe that

Harris Bone was there. But if he was, if Glory saw him, we both know he'd have every incentive to kill her to protect his secret.'

Hoffman squeezed his knees tightly with his hands. 'You're getting me angry, Mrs Bradley.'

'I'm sorry, that's not my intention.'

'I know exactly what your intention is. You're trying to exploit the tragedy that destroyed my family in order to protect your husband, who is most likely a murderer. I won't let you do that.'

Hilary recoiled. 'I don't want to exploit your grief.'

'Don't treat me like an idiot. You don't care about Harris Bone. You don't want to find him. You want him to be a mystery man, so your husband's lawyer can do a dance with a jury and get him off. Don't expect me to be a party to it. I don't need the hope of catching this