As soon as I hung up, I called my nephew, Jimmy. He retired from the sheriff’s department two years ago, but he still knows everyone in town. I told him what I had found. Then I called my friend Martha, who retired from the local county administration but still has the personal number of the lead consumer reporter at the local television station.

At ten-thirty, I walked into the kitchen where Tracey was making school lunches. Kayla was sitting at the counter, looking miserable.

“Get your coats,” I said. My voice was different now. No more sweet grandma. It was the voice I used when I was a lead receptionist and a patient was trying to lie about their copay.

Tracey looked up, defensive. “Mom, I told you, if you are going to lecture us about the modeling—”

“We are going to meet Marcus,” I said, putting my car keys on the counter. “And you are going to watch.”

When we walked into the Panera Bread, the smell of roasted coffee and warm bread was thick.

Marcus was already there, sitting in a booth near the back. He had a small leather portfolio open on the table, and he looked like a busy executive.

I told Tracey and Kayla to sit at a booth three rows behind him, where they could see him but he couldn’t easily see them. Then, I walked over and sat down directly across from him.

“Evelyn!” he said, leaning forward. “You look lovely today. Do you have the registration fee?”

“I do,” I said. I reached into my purse. I pulled out a thick, white envelope and laid it on the table.

But I did not let go of it. “But before I hand this over, I just wanted to ask you a quick question about Atlanta.”

“Of course,” he said, his eyes glued to the envelope.

“Is the hotel showcase going to be run by Vance Talent, or are you going to use Ross Scouting Partners like you did in Savannah?”

He froze. The practicing smile stayed on his face, but his eyes turned completely cold. He looked at me, and for the first time, he didn’t look like a smooth agent. He looked like a cornered animal.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. His voice had lost all its warmth. He reached for the envelope, but I pulled it back.

“I think you do, Julian,” I said. I opened my purse again and pulled out the printed pages of his Georgia mugshot and the warnings from the Savannah mothers. I spread them out across the table, covering his glossy gold-edged card.

He stood up quickly, his chair scraping loudly against the tile floor. Several people at nearby tables turned to look. “This is a misunderstanding,” he muttered, grabbing his leather portfolio.