But the words died in his throat when the chair next to me moved.

His face, which had been flushed from the liquor, turned gray, like he’d seen a ghost. The biscuit fell from his hand and crumbled on the floor. He knew in that one second that my silence the night before hadn’t been fear.

It had been a verdict.

But for you to understand how we got to this breakfast that felt more like a courtroom, let me introduce myself properly.

I’m Gwendolyn Hayes. I’m sixty-eight years old, a widow, and I live in an old neighborhood in Savannah, Georgia. You know the kind of houses with the big porches and the old oak trees out front? Well, that’s me.