He’s right. I don’t know why I’m nervous. Except that this feels like crossing a line. It’s one thing to have her here to review information about my case, but this invitation didn’t have any work attached to it. This invitation was more like…a social call.

Edison is dressed in a button-down shirt and khaki pants and has been told on penalty of death that he will behave like the gentleman I know him to be, or I will whup him when he gets home. When we ring the doorbell, the husband—Micah, that’s his name—answers, with a girl tucked under his arm like a rag doll. “You must be Ruth,” he says, taking the bouquet I offer and shaking my hand warmly, then shaking Edison’s. He pivots, then turns the other way. “My daughter, Violet, is around here somewhere…I just saw her…I’m sure she’ll want to say hello.” As he twists, the little girl whips around, her hair flying, her giggles falling over my feet like bubbles.

She slips out of her dad’s arm, and I kneel down. Violet McQuarrie looks like a tiny version of her mama, albeit dressed in a Princess Tiana costume. I hold out a Mason jar that is filled with miniature white lights, and flip the switch so that it illuminates. “This is for you,” I tell her. “It’s a fairy jar.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow,” Violet breathes, and she takes it and runs off.

I get to my feet. “It also doubles as an excellent night-light,” I tell Micah, as Kennedy comes out of the kitchen, wearing jeans and a sweater and an apron.

“You made it!” she says, smiling. She has spaghetti sauce on her chin.

“Yes,” I answer. “I must have driven past your place a hundred times. I just didn’t know, you know, that you lived here.”

And still wouldn’t, had I not been indicted for murder. I know she’s thinking it, too, but Micah saves the moment. “Drink? Can I get you something, Ruth? We have wine, beer, gin and tonic…”

“Wine would be nice.”

We sit down in the living room. There is already a cheese plate on the coffee table. “Look at that,” Edison murmurs to me. “A basketful of crackers.”

I shoot him a look that could make a bird fall from the sky.

“It’s so nice of you to invite us into your home,” I say politely.

“Well, don’t thank me yet,” Kennedy replies. “Dinner with a four-year-old is not exactly a gourmet dining experience.” She smiles at Violet, who is coloring on the other side of the coffee table. “Needless to say we don’t entertain much these days.”

“I remember when Edison was that age. I am pretty sure we ate a variation of macaroni and cheese every night for a full year.”

Micah crosses his legs. “Edison, my wife tells me you’re quite the student.”

Yes. Because I neglected to mention to Kennedy that of late, he’s been suspended.

“Thank you, sir,” Edison replies. “I’ve been applying to colleges.”

“Oh yeah? That’s great. What do you want to study?”

“History, maybe. Or politics.”

Micah nods, interested. “Are you a big fan of Obama?”

Why do white people always assume that?

“I was kind of young when he was running,” Edison says. “But I went around with my mom campaigning for Hillary, when she was running against him. I guess because of my dad I’m sensitive to military issues, and her position on the Iraq War made more sense at the time; she was vocally in favor of invasion and Obama was opposed from the start.”

I puff up with pride. “Well,” Micah says, impressed. “I look forward to seeing your name on a ticket one day.”

Violet, clearly bored by this conversation, steps over my legs to hold out a crayon to Edison. “Wanna color?” she asks.

“Um, yeah, okay,” Edison replies. He sinks down to his knees, shoulder to shoulder with Kennedy’s girl, so that he can reach the coloring book. He starts making Cinderella’s dress green.

“No,” Violet interrupts, a tiny despot. “That’s supposed to be blue.” She points to Cinderella’s dress in the coloring book, half hidden beneath Edison’s broad palm.

“Violet,” Kennedy says, “we let our guests make their own choices, remember?”

“That’s okay, Mrs. McQuarrie. I wouldn’t want to mess with Cinderella,” Edison answers.

The little girl proudly hands him the right color crayon, a blue one. Edison bends his head and starts to scribble again.

“Next week you start jury selection?” I ask. “Should I be worried about that?”

“No, of course not. It’s just—”

“Edison?” Violet asks. “Is that a chain?”

He touches the necklace he’s been wearing lately, ever since he started hanging with his cousin. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So that means you’re a slave,” she states matter-of-factly.

“Violet!” Both Micah and Kennedy shout her name simultaneously.

“Oh my God, Edison. Ruth. I’m so sorry,” Kennedy blusters. “I don’t know where she would have heard that—”

“In school,” Violet announces. “Josiah told Taisha that people who look like her used to wear chains and their history was that they were slaves.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Micah says. “Okay, Vi? It’s not something to talk about now.”

“It’s okay,” I say, even though I can feel the unease in the room, as if someone has taken away all the oxygen. “Do you know what a slave is?”

Violet shakes her head.