"It's Thursday."
"I feel like I've been in a cave for a week."
Adam had two choices. He could play along with the wicked little virus act and hope she stopped the drinking before it got worse. Or he could confront her now and make her realize she was not fooling him. Maybe they would fight, and maybe this was what you were supposed to do with drunks who'd fallen off the wagon. How was he supposed to know what to do?
"Does your doctor know you're drinking?" he asked, holding his breath.
There was a long pause. "I haven't been drinking," she said, almost inaudible.
"Come on, Lee. I found the vodka bottle in the wastebasket. I know the other three bottles of beer disappeared last Saturday. You smell like a brewery right now. You're not fooling anyone, Lee. You're drinking heavily, and I want to help."
She sat straighter, and pulled her legs up to her chest. Then she was still for a long time. Adam glanced at her silhouette. Minutes passed. The apartment was deathly quiet.
"How's my dear father?" she muttered. Her words were sluggish, but still bitter.
"I didn't see him today."
"Don't you think we'll be better off when he's dead?"
Adam looked at her silhouette. "No, Lee, I don't. Do you?"
She was silent and still for at least a minute. "You feel sorry for him, don't you?" she finally asked.
"Yes, I do."
"Is he pitiful?"
"Yes, he is."
"What does he look like?"
"A very old man, with plenty of gray hair that's always oily and pulled back. He has a short gray beard. Lots of wrinkles. His skin is very pale."
"What does he wear?"
"A red jumpsuit. All death row inmates wear the same thing."
Another long pause as she thought about this. Then she said, "I guess it's easy to feel sorry for him."
"It is for me."
"But you see, Adam, I've never seen him the way you see him. I saw a different person."
"And what did you see?"
She adjusted the blanket around her legs, then grew still again. "My father was a person I despised."
"Do you still despise him?"
"Yes. Very much so. I think he should go ahead and die. God knows he deserves it."
"Why does he deserve it?"
This prompted another spell of silence. She moved slightly to her left and took a cup or glass from the nightstand. She sipped slowly, as Adam watched her shadows. He didn't ask what she was drinking.
"Does he talk to you about the past?"
"Only when I ask questions. We've talked about Eddie, but I promised we wouldn't do it again."
"He's the reason Eddie's dead. Does he realize this?"
"Maybe."
"Did you tell him? Did you blame him for Eddie?"
"No."
"You should have. You're too easy on him. He needs to know what he's done."
"I think he does. But you said yourself it's not fair to torment him at this point of his life."
"How about Joe Lincoln? Did you talk to him about Joe Lincoln?"
"I told Sam that you and I went to the old family place. He asked me if I knew about Joe Lincoln. I said that I did."
"Did he deny it?"
"No. He showed a lot of remorse."
"He's a liar."
"No. I think he was sincere."
Another long pause as she sat motionless. Then, "Has he told you about the lynching?"
Adam closed his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees. "No," he mumbled.
"I didn't think so."
"I don't want to hear it, Lee."
"Yes you do. You came down here full of questions about the family and about your past. Two weeks ago you just couldn't get enough of the Cayhall family misery. You wanted all the blood and gore."
"I've heard enough," he said.
"What day is it?" she asked.