“They’ll want to know why you didn’t escape. Why you didn’t run when you had the chance.” A long pause. He clasps the gloves in both hands now. “You were in mourning. You weretaken from your home, disoriented, coerced. You were held against your will, moved across state lines by a violent man—one responsible for the death of your husband.”
He recites it like a script. Polished. Unassailable.
“You feared for your life. He threatened you. You did not participate. You were forced to witness unspeakable things. You followed him only because there was no choice. That is the truth I expect you’ll be telling.”
I feel the heat rising behind my eyes, but I say nothing.
Virgil stands. “Because any other version,” he says, straightening his cuffs, “would be unfortunate. For you. For the Sherman name. There is no public appetite for hanging a woman. Especially not one who used to sit at my family’s table.” He walks to the foot of the bed. Slow, composed. “What I am offering you, sister, is not protection from the law. It’s protection from what the law will do to you if you defend that man.”
Sister.My jaw tightens and fury brews hot in my belly. I cannot hold my tongue at these thinly veiled threats. At his revisionist history. My voice is steady, but cold. “I am not your sister. Do you think I loved your family? That I loved Joseph?”
He lets out a breath. Not quite a sigh, more like disappointment I am no longer participating in this charade.
“That’s irrelevant. What matters is what the papers print. What the jury hears. What the Sherman name can survive. Our relationship with the L&N is critical. We cannot afford for them—or any of our partners—to believe a Sherman ran off with a criminal who derailed their trains and cost them thousands in damages.”
He looks at me, no softness left.
Of course. It’s only ever been business.
“We will not suffer that loss because you couldn’t control yourself.”
The words land like a slap. Not shouted, but sharp enough to cut. I feel him waiting for something. A denial. A protest. Even tears. I give him nothing.
Let him fill the silence with whatever story he needs.
After a long moment, I hear the rustle of his gloves as he pulls them back on.
“Rest, Alice,” he says, smoothing the leather down each finger. “You’ll need your strength for the days ahead. There’s no need to dwell on what’s already decided. The truth will keep you safe.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
My body is rigid. The light through the window shifts again, catching the brass bed frame and throwing a dull gleam across the floor. The nurse doesn’t return. No one comes.
Just me and the pain.
Kodiak is in custody.
There will be a trial.
And he will hang.
My gut turns, and I brace against the mattress. A shiver runs up through my shoulders, into my throat. I blink hard as tears burn. I try to breathe, but my chest won’t rise. It’s too heavy. Like something’s caved in. Like something's crushed beyond repair.
A sob tears loose before I can swallow it. It slips out sharp and ugly, then another follows, and suddenly I’m crying—quiet, violent. I clutch the blanket, bury my face in it, teeth clenched to keep from screaming. I cry until my ribs ache and my throat is raw. Until the only sound left is my breath and the madness echoing in my head.
He will hang.
Unless I do something.
Chapter 33
KODIAK
“Mr. Randolph, if you intend to plead guilty, this will be over quickly. No parade of witnesses, no days of testimony. You spare the court the trouble, and you might spare yourself some additional ignominy.”
I open my eyes slow. “Spare myself what now?”
“Igno— Shame, Mr. Randolph. Spare yourself the indignity of a public trial,” the little man says, tugging at his frayed cuffs.
