Into this cyclone of thoughts I hear a voice. Deputy Logan has asked me a question. I look up at him and he can see that I did not hear it. His arm is extended toward me and in his hand is a clutch of white fabric.
“Would you like a handkerchief?” he says.
A stream of tears has coursed down my cheeks, down my neck, and into my lap.
“It’s not for Colm that I am crying,” I blurt. “It’s not because of what I did.”
“Yes, I know.”
The handkerchief is still extended.
“He killed my daughter.”
Deputy Logan says nothing, but a second later I take the handkerchief. It smells of cedar and lime and pipe tobacco. Such comforting fragrances. They remind me of Da. I press the fabric to my cheeks and I breathe in deep.
And I wait for the deputy to tell me what my fate will be.
He doesn’t say anything for several long moments.
“My concern is the whereabouts of Clyde Merriman, the man you know as Martin Hocking,” he finally says.
I can form no words for a second. “Did... did you not hear what I just told you?” I finally ask.
“I heard every word.”
Silence hovers between us.
“Where is he?” the deputy asks seconds later.
“I think... I think he might be dead.”
“Did you do something to him?”
The words slip easily off my lips. “I did not save him.”
“Where is he?” the deputy says again.
“I’m not entirely sure anymore.”
“Then why do you think he is dead?”
“Because I saw... him.” I refold the handkerchief and place it on the table. He does not reach to take it.
“I want to know everything that happened,” he says. “I want to know how Belinda Bigelow found her way to your house. I want to know why she stayed the night and how you knew Candace was still alive. And I want to know what happened to the man you know as Martin Hocking.”
A welcome but bizarre calm wraps itself around me as I begin to tell the deputy all about the events of the last seven months, starting with the day before the earthquake. I tell him everything that happened on the stairs. And everything that happened afterward. When I am finished, the deputy says nothing for several tense seconds.
“So you do not have proof that the man you know as Martin Hocking is dead?” he finally asks.
“No.”
“Then it’s possible your husband is still missing,” he says, not taking his eyes off mine. And I can see so very clearly that he is not going to be arresting me today. A second or two passes as I ponder why.
“I suppose that’s true.”
He’s still staring at me, as though he is formulating a plan in his head. He is deciding something. I cannot discern his thoughts.
Then he leans forward and pushes the certified copies from theCounty Down records office toward me. Sophie’s death certificate. My birth certificate. My marriage certificate. Colm’s death certificate.
