“Come on back,” I say, determined not to let myself be overwhelmed by him.

Seated in one of my chairs (the first time he came to my office at the PD’s he stood the entire time), he asks, “Page, you know anything about the Wallace murder?”

“Only a little,” I say. Leigh Wallace is a knockout brunette in her early twenties and the daughter of the minister of one of the largest nondenominational churches in the South who is on trial this month for the murder of her wealthy businessman husband at their swank home overlooking the Arkansas River.

“You got any interest in helping on the case?”

Bracken grunts so quickly I wonder if I have heard him.

I can’t believe he is asking me. Bracken has always been a one-man band, paying investigators and law clerks on a case-by-case basis.

“What do you need?” I ask, trying not to sound suspicious. While Bracken is the best criminal defense attorney Blackwell County has to offer, his reputation is clouded by rumors of violent paybacks when he feels a witness has lied to him on the stand. (One informant supposedly ended up with broken kneecaps.) Yet, since nothing has ever been documented, the stories may be mere jealousy. We like winners in Arkansas, but we like to hate them, too.

“Right now I need your word that what I’m about to tell you will go no further than this room,” he says, his voice earnest and low, “whether you come in with me on this case or not.”

My curiosity raised by the hint of pleading in his tone, I nod and say, “Of course,” noticing that the lines around Bracken’s mouth look drawn so tightly they appear to be sewn on his face.

“I’m dying of cancer,” he says hoarsely.

“I’m on some painkillers, but I’m not going in for all the experimental crap and pretend I’ve got a chance.”

Bracken’s words send a chill through me that leaves me clammy.