“Yeah, in an eight-by-twelve cussin’ the fact that bright orange ain’t ‘er color. Don’t worry, she’s not gettin’ out.”

“I’m not worried. About that anyway. But I do need to know where she is specifically. Saint Louis? Somewhere else?”

“Ain’t important, white man,” he returned with a hard, dismissive tone underscoring the words. Even with that, at least his overall reaction was calmer than I had expected it might be.

“Do you even know where she’s being held, Ben?”

“Yeah. She’s in an eight-by-twelve, just like I said.”

“Dammit, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well actually I do know where she is. But I’m tellin’ ya’ to leave it alone, Row.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, seriously, Ben. I can’t.”

“Okay, I’ll play. Ya’ wanna give me a good reason why?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve got a bad feeling this isn’t over yet.”

“What isn’t over?”

“Miranda.”

“What? How the hell can it not be over?” he almost barked the question. “The bitch is in custody. There’s enough hard evidence ta’ get ‘er the needle. It’s a slam-dunk. Once the Feebs are done with her, she’s gonna be puttin’ in her order for a last meal. It’s done. Finished.”

“You’re talking about Annalise,” I told him, nodding my head in agreement. “But I’m talking about Miranda. The Lwa that was using her as a horse.”

He shook his head. “Horse. Jeez, that gets me every time I hear it.”

“It’s just Vodoun terminology for the body a spirit possesses, Ben.”

“Yeah, I know, you told me. Still sounds weird though.” He threw up his hands and shook his head. “Either way, white man, it doesn’t matter. Like you said, Miranda’s a ghost.”