“Y-yes, of course.” Wallace sways a little as he lowers himself into a chair. His pen rattles in his hand. “I will, ah, do my utmost to see that my client’s interests are preserved.”
The US Attorney clears his throat, ready to continue as if nothing has changed.
I press my hands together in my lap, tight as a knot. This is the man meant to defend Kodiak? Late, rumpled, and meek.
Virgil rests his hand on the arm of my chair, fingers firm, guiding me forward. “It is time, Alice.”
The clerk lifts the Bible. “Please stand, Mrs. Sherman.”
My hip throbs. The chair feels too deep, my skirts too heavy. I brace a hand against the armrest, try to push myself up. Pain shoots through me, sharp enough to draw breath from my throat. For a heartbeat, the room blurs, wood paneling and brass lamps swimming together.
Virgil is on his feet at once, hand firm beneath my elbow. “Steady, sister,” he murmurs, voice pitched for all to hear. “She is still convalescing, Your Honor. A miracle she survived at all.”
The judge nods gravely, as though Virgil himself has been my nursemaid. “Yes, yes, take your time. We understand.”
At last I make it upright, my weight heavy on Virgil’s arm. The clerk holds out the Bible.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I say, though my voice is thin.
The US Attorney rises with his notebook. “Mrs. Sherman, thank you for your courage in coming here today. I will begin simply. You were married to Joseph Sherman, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And it is true that your husband was killed by Mr. Randolph, and that Mr. Randolph took you from your home in Ohio?”
“Objection.” Mr. Wallace coughs, clearing his throat. “Objection.”
“This is a deposition, counselor. Overruled. Your objection will be preserved for the record.”
Wallace raises a finger. “But I didn’t?—”
“Answer the question, Mrs. Sherman,” the judge commands, cutting him off.
Virgil’s hand tightens on my arm; a subtle reminder, a warning.
“Yes,” I say, though the word tastes like bile.
The stenographer’s keys clatter, etching my lie into the eternal record.
Across the table, Wallace scribbles something crooked in his notes, clears his throat like he might speak, then thinks better of it.
The US Attorney paces slowly, one finger marking his page. “Mrs. Sherman, can you describe the circumstances under which you were taken?”
My pulse quickens, the memory of that night a whirlwind. Joseph’s limp figure slumped in Kodiak’s lap. The road unraveling beneath horses’ hooves.
Virgil’s threat needles me from too near, the faintest tilt of his head warning me which lines to walk.
“I was taken from my home,” I say at last.
The prosecutor nods, satisfied. “And you did not go of your own choosing?”
Silence hums heavy. My fingers knot in my skirts. I could tell them the truth: that I had a choice, that I chose to follow. That what bound me to Kodiak was not rope but will. Desire. But that truth is a gallows not just for him, but for me. He’d insisted upon this from the beginning—if we were ever caught, I was to say I was kidnapped.
“I did not go of my own choosing,” I repeat, softer.
The stenographer’s keys clatter, fixing the lie in iron.
