Somehow she knew. I told her it wasn’t Jesse’s and she asked me whose it was.

I told her everything then, struggling to keep my wits about me. I told her how Martin Drapple raped me. How I killed him with a hammer. I told her that Jesse hid his body and the hammer but the police found them, so they were after both of us now. I told her how sorry I was that I’d gotten Jesse in trouble.

She pressed a hand over her mouth as I spoke, her dark eyes never leaving my face. I could tell I’d shocked her, and I didn’t think she was the sort to shock easily. Finally, she let out a long breath. She said that Jesse made the decision to help me, so that wasn’t my fault. Nobody made him do it, she said. That was small comfort to me, though. “And our Lord Jesus ain’t never gonna forgive me for this,” she said, “but I ain’t got no sympathy for a man who’d rough up a woman, and what that Mr. Drapple done to you went way beyond that, didn’t it?”

I nodded. I felt grateful for her words—and somewhat vindicated by them as well—but that didn’t solve the predicament I was in.

She asked again how far along I was, her gaze dropping to my belly behind the smock I was still wearing, and I told her about two months. She stood up and walked to the window and I guessed she was looking out at the road, watching for the police. She had to be nervous, but she didn’t show it. She was a midwife. I thought she must be used to things going terribly wrong.

She asked me if I had anyplace else to go where the police wouldn’t be looking for me, and I shook my head. She let out a breath she must have been holding in, then said I would have to stay with them until the baby came.

I was stunned by the thought. I couldn’t imagine staying with them for seven months. The police would look for me here. I’d put all of them in too much danger.

“Jesse said to take care of you, so we gonna take care of you.”

I felt weak with gratitude and relief. I longed to turn myself over to someone stronger, someone smarter than I felt at that moment.