She doesn’t answer right away, just pours water into a chipped enamel bowl. The scent of carbolic soap curls through the air.
“You’ll need broth. Something soft.”
“Where is he?” I ask again, louder now.
She looks at me. Older, lined face full of pity, like she’s seen too many women wake up asking the same question.
“I don’t know who you mean,” she says.
The light is sharp now. Not the flicker of a lantern, but sun, high and intense, pouring through the window. It’s midday. I must’ve slept through morning.
The nurse dips a cloth in the basin and pats my forehead with it. Her hands are efficient, impersonal.
“Who brought me here?” I ask.
She glances at me, then back at her work. “I couldn’t say. You were brought in some days ago. Carried in unconscious.”
“How many days?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Wrings the cloth out. Folds it over. “Four. Maybe five.”
My heart kicks in my chest. Nearly a week. A floorboard creaks. A shadow moves behind her. “No. No. How can-–”
“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right.”
The voice crawls in like a draft under the door. Soft. Familiar.
I know the voice before I see the face.
Virgil.
Hat in hand, his hair is neatly combed, and the only sound he makes is the click of his shined boots. He draws the leather from his hand slowly, peeling off his gloves.
“Well,” he says, smiling faintly, “you are awake.” He approaches with the calm of a man who owns the bed, the room, and the land beneath the building.
“You gave us quite a fright,” he says, settling into the chair beside me. “We had the entire country searching for you. Notices in every rail town between here and the Lakes. Pinkertons, private agents—we spared no expense. And now,” he continues, folding his hands, “we’ve found you. In Galveston. In the company of the man who killed my brother.”
My stomach tightens, but I say nothing.
“You were unconscious when he brought you in. Curious, don’t you think? An outlaw carrying his victim into a hospital at such great personal expense?”
He lets the question linger.
“One might almost mistake it for concern. Of course, no one is making assumptions. Not yet. These are complicated matters. Emotions. Fear. Confusion.” His voice gentles. “You were taken. You were grieving. You lost your husband under violent circumstances, then vanished without a trace. That is a tremendous burden for any woman.”
I turn my face slightly toward the window.
“But now that you’re safe, the proper course can be set. Justice can be served. Joseph can have peace. And so can you.” He leans forward just enough that I can feel the shift in air, the nearness of him. “The trial will be soon,” he says, lower now, almost private. “You’ll be called to speak. All I ask is that you tell the truth, Alice.”
A trial? If there’s to be a trial, that means they have him. My mouth goes dry as ash. I cannot let it show. Virgil is watching.
“I’m sure you remember what that is,” he adds.
I smooth the sheet with my fingers, steadying them. When I speak, my voice is soft. “Of course I remember.” I meet his eyes. “Thank you. For coming.” A smile. Just enough to keep him from looking deeper.
Virgil returns the smile, polite as ever. “Of course. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He picks up his gloves but doesn’t put them on. Just smooths the fingers flat against his thigh. “There will be a deposition before the trial. A statement taken under oath. It will be read before the court, alongside your live testimony. The federal prosecutors will ask for details—how he took you, where he kept you, what you saw.”
He glances at me. There’s nothing sharp there. Nothing overt. Just the glint of calculation.
