Rafe reached over to grip Gideon’s knee. “She’s doing okay, Gid. Let her do this, okay? She needs to try.”

Gideon nodded, but his throat worked convulsively as he tried to swallow.

Rafe had thought about how hard this would be for Mercy, but he hadn’t considered the impact on Gideon. I should have. He moved his hand to the back of Gideon’s neck, holding on tight. Anchoring his best friend the best way he knew how.

Belinda Franklin turned to look at Mercy, her movements slow and so deliberate that a shiver raced down Rafe’s spine. The old woman’s eyes were as flat as her voice. Lifeless. His instincts screamed at him to get Mercy out of there, but he stayed where he was and watched his woman at work.

His woman. Yes. Mine.

“You lie,” Belinda said with quiet viciousness.

“No, I don’t. I can prove it to you.” The picture jumped again, and then Mercy was holding the box in which she kept her locket. She opened it, dangling the locket in front of Belinda’s face, like a hypnotist. “Your son gave this to me the day that we were married.”

Rafe exhaled carefully. The chain from which the locket dangled wasn’t delicate or pretty. It was thick, like one used to lock up bicycles. Or women. All of the women in Eden wore lockets like these. The chains were welded together, so that the women could never take them off.

“You lie,” Belinda repeated, but her dead gaze was fixed on the swinging locket.

“No, I don’t,” Mercy repeated. Holding the locket in her palm, she pressed the locket’s engraved symbol so quickly that Rafe wouldn’t have known what she was doing if he hadn’t seen another locket opened the same way. The other one had belonged to Eileen, who’d also escaped Eden and Ephraim, only to die later.

Mercy held the open locket up so that the camera on her lapel caught the image of the photo inside. “This is Harry and me. This was our wedding day.”

Gideon made a pained sound and looked away.

Rafe made himself look, though. He owed this much to Mercy. If he wanted to share her life, he needed to share this pain. Because he was certain that Mercy didn’t need to look at the photo to remember. The images of her wedding to Ephraim were indelibly stamped in her memory.

God, she was young. So young. Only twelve, her face still round and sweet and childish. But her eyes were haunted. Terrified. And even though the photo was grainy and small, he could tell that she’d been crying before it had been taken.

Ephraim, on the other hand, was smiling triumphantly. He wore the same eye patch that he’d worn in his wedding photo with Eileen, but the eye that was visible gleamed with malicious delight.

Then the image blurred and Rafe blinked. And realized he was crying.

Oh God, Mercy. I’m so sorry he hurt you.