“Some people don’t listen to authority,” Belinda replies. “They will probably think he was a foolish man who didn’t listen to them. He will be a casualty of the earthquake and fire. They will declare him deceased, won’t they?”
I ponder this for a moment. Perhaps Belinda is right. But what if she is wrong? What if going to the police to report that Martin is missing leads to a deeper look at Martin’s life? A deeper look at mine?
“I could just quietly disappear,” I say. “Nobody is going to miss me in San Francisco. No one is looking for me there, and no one’sgoing to find me here. And I don’t need Martin to be missing and then declared dead for me to be free to marry another. I am already not legally married to him.”
The others around the table are quiet while they consider my words.
“Would you still call yourself Sophie Hocking, then?” Elliot finally asks. “Is that the name you would go by?”
“I don’t see why not.” I turn to Candace. “If anyone here in San Rafaela asks, I can say that I am your sister-in-law. It will seem natural then for me to be the person who takes Kat if and when your disease claims you.” I do not mention that in due time, people would surely forget that I wasn’t Kat’s real mother, because we would have the same surname. There is another reason why I would like to keep Martin’s name, but I don’t need to share it with Candace; I don’t even need to think about it. It has nothing to do with any of this.
Candace holds my gaze, her brow a wee bit furrowed. “But you’re not my sister-in-law. Martin doesn’t have a brother.”
“I know. It’s just an answer for anyone who asks. How many even will?”
“Or,” Candace says slowly, as though she is still puzzling out a solution. “Or we can just tell anyone around here who asks that Kat is Sophie’s daughter and that I am the relative. And if locals ask where Sophie’s husband is, and if she feels so inclined to answer, she can tell them that he sadly perished in the earthquake and fire, which is true.”
There isn’t a sound around the table at this suggestion.
“I... I would never ask you to do that,” I finally sputter.
“You aren’t. I am saying it makes the most sense. We need to keep alive the ruse of Martin’s marriage to you to protect you andKat from any kind of criminal prosecution—and you, too, Belinda; you were there; you knew what happened and did nothing—then it makes the most sense. You know it does. I’ll soon be gone. It makes the most sense.”
“But... Kat’s inheritance. Don’t you want her to have the money your grandmother left you? You told me it can only be bequeathed to your child,” I counter.
“Kat will still receive the inheritance,” Candace says wearily. The length of this conversation is exhausting her. “We’ll just tell people here she is your daughter. My lawyer in Los Angeles knows Kat is my child. He also knows I am dying. I’ll instruct him to draw up a document appointing you as my daughter’s legal guardian, Sophie, so that if you should ever need to prove you are the rightful person to raise her, you will have it.”
“Won’t your lawyer wonder who I am?”
“I’ll tell him youaremy sister-in-law, just like you said, that you married Martin’s brother. That’s why your last name is also Hocking. He won’t know Martin didn’t have a brother.”
“But, Candace—,” Belinda begins, and Candace cuts her off.
“Look. I know she’smyKitty Kat. I know it, and that’s all that matters. The rest is how we keep her safe and the rest of you able to care for her. And this is how we do it.”
•••
The next day, the first Friday in June, Elliot arrives at the inn to take me to the depot to board the first train of the day for San Francisco. My plan is to do what I need to do and return by evening, as staying overnight in a city of refugees is out of the question. From what I have read in theSan FranciscoExaminer, which Elliot has been able to procure for me a time or two, Golden GatePark is still a tent city of thousands upon thousands of homeless. Kat and I were lucky to have the Loralei to escape to. Too many others don’t have such a place.
On my way out the door, I tell Kat that she gets to spend the day with her mama and Belinda and the baby while I see to affairs in need of attending.
“Where?” she says, her head cocked in puzzlement. I have never said such a thing to her before.
“Out and about,” I say cheerfully. “I’ll bring you back a sweet.” And I kiss her head and leave with Elliot before she can decide that is not a good enough answer.
We are less than a mile down the lane when Elliot offers to accompany me to San Francisco to help me survey the ruin of my house.
To help with whatever I might find there.
“It’s kind of you, to be sure, but I will be fine. I can manage this,” I answer. “And you have your own business to run.”
“But how will you get out to where your house was? I doubt the streetcars are running, and what if you can’t hail a carriage?”
“I’ll be all right. I’ve walked a long stretch before. I can do it again.”
“And if there are remains of a body to be dealt with? What will you do then?” His tone is abrupt and blunt, as though he means to surprise and nauseate me into accepting his offer of assistance.
But I am not afraid to come upon the burnt remains of Martin Hocking. I feel nothing but disgust for him. I’ve already considered this, imagined it. Practiced it in my head. I’ve already visualized the pile of ashes or the blackened corpse or the grisly mixture of both. I shall not be undone by it. I am ready to see what the fires of judgment did to Martin.
