She was seventy-three years old and her bloodline reached back to the pioneers who’d settled in the region. After her husband was killed in a threshing accident, she’d raised her two daughters on her own. The lines carved in her face reflected the tribulations of a woman as enduring as the beautiful and unforgiving badlands, a woman whose life was guided by her faith in God.

He held her hand firmly in his.

“Mrs. Porter, my name is Will Fortin. This is my wife Cathy. Please accept our deepest condolences.”

Belva Porter nodded, but he knew that nothing had registered.

“Mrs. Porter,” he turned to Trudy’s sister, the one who would be raising three-year-old Lori, the lone survivor, “June, I need you both to know that I am the police officer who first answered the call that night.”

June looked hard at Fortin.

“I was there when it happened.”

Belva Porter blinked as if awakened.

“There’s something I need you to know,” he’d lowered himself so that he was face-to-face with the women, never letting go of Belva’s hand. “I’m the one who shot Billy and Daisy. I swear to you, I didn’t see them behind Lyle. I’m so sorry. What happened is my fault and I’d give anything to undo what I did. I will live with this all of my life.”

June’s hand touched her face and she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Belva’s chin crumpled, her mouth quivered with the beginnings of a sneer.

“This was all Lyle’s doing,” Belva said. “We don’t blame you.”

Fortin felt Belva squeeze his hand tightly, then she placed her other hand on his shoulder.

“Do you hear me, Will Fortin? We don’t blame you. We forgive you.”

-Chapter 13-

Southern Alberta

But Fortin couldn’t forgive himself.

In the weeks that followed he’d struggled. Every mundane act became a monumental challenge to overcome. Like when Cathy had asked him to replace a light bulb that had burned out in their kitchen. As he screwed in the new bulb, it popped – sounding like a gunshot – and he’d flinched and erupted in anger, shouting curses.

Cathy calmed him down then swept up the broken glass.

It was as if something deep inside Fortin had shattered.

He had become increasingly irritable but it was not the only problem he’d grappled with. He’d also suffered mood swings, had grown anxious had lost his appetite and consequently some weight. He continued to have trouble sleeping and couldn’t stop obsessing about that night.

He’d kept up his sessions with Dr. Mathson, who’d referred him to a psychiatrist, Dr. Anton Sileski in Calgary, who’d suggested Cathy attend some of his sessions with him.

Cathy agreed.

“We’re in this together,” she told Fortin.