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When she spoke again, the defiant hardness had left her voice. “That little girl in any danger?”
    Marie spread her hands, palms up. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have to find her first.”
    The woman looked around furtively. “Lady got fired name Violet Prickett. She know something about it, and the ole bitch ain’t got nothin’ to hold over her no more.”
    Marie nodded. “You got an address? A phone number?”
    The girl nodded. “She move in with her son. He stay in Wilmington. We talk sometimes.” She told Marie the number. Marie memorized it; she didn’t want to be seen writing it down in case Miss Melanie was watching.
    “Thanks, ah…”
    “Janica,” the woman said. “You find that little girl you tell her Miss Janica said hi. She’ll know who you talkin’ about.” She shook her head sadly. “She a sweet little thing. I hope you find her.”
    ***
    Violet Prickett lived in one of the areas near the Cape Fear River where older houses had yet to be bought up by affluent white people and turned into “historic” homes. The house, while clean and recently painted, was losing the battle with gravity and dry rot. The front porch visibly sagged in places, one of the carved support posts slightly askew. The screen door behind which Prickett stood had been torn and patched and torn again.
    Prickett was a slightly built woman who appeared to be in her early sixties. Marie was surprised at her age; most of the other women at the day-care center had appeared to be in their twenties. She stood ramrod straight behind the door, no expression on her face. Her skin was a light brown, only slightly creased with laugh and worry lines.
    “Ms. Prickett?” Marie said. “I’m Marie Jones. We spoke on the phone?”
    “It’s Mrs.,” Prickett said.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “You said Ms. It’s Mrs.,” Prickett said. Her diction was crisp and precise, like a schoolteacher’s. “I was married twenty-nine years. I raised seven children. I’m not ashamed of it.”
    “No, ma’am,” Marie said. “Mrs. Prickett, I really need to talk to you.”
    The woman made no move to open the door. “You work for that Fedder woman,” she said. “Why should I talk to you?”
    Marie decided to gamble. “Because I’m not sure my client is telling me everything I need to know. I’m doing my job, but I want to know who I’m doing it for.”
    Prickett didn’t move. “And if you find out something that makes you think twice about giving that little girl back to that woman,” she almost spat the last two words, “what then? You going to give the money back?”
    “Well, actually,” Marie said, “I haven’t been paid yet.”
    Prickett remained silent for a long moment. Then she smiled sadly. “You really are new at this, aren’t you, Miss Jones?” She opened the door. “Come on in.”
    Marie entered. The front room was dimly lit by the light through the big front windows. There was a worn couch by the door, covered by a crocheted afghan. A matching and equally ancient easy chair stood beside it, facing a console television.
    “I was just getting ready for some tea,” Prickett said. “You want some?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Marie said. “One sugar, please.” She sat down on the couch. There was a coffee table in front of it, with copies of The Watchtower and Modern Maturity arranged in neat rows.
    There was the rumbling of feet on stairs somewhere out of sight. A slim young black man came into the room.
    He stopped short when he saw Marie. “Who are you?” he demanded.
    Marie stood up. “Marie Jones,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m—”
    The young man cut her off. “I know who you are,” he snapped. “You’re that investigator.” Before Marie could respond, he turned and shouted toward the back of the house. “Mama?” he called. “Mama!”
    “Don’t you shout at me like that, Curtis,” Prickett said as she came back in the room, carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. “I haven’t