Before making her way to the settlement’s edge where the switch grass met the hard, dry earth, though, she had needed to see for herself. When Lady Mae arrived at her own shack for the last time, she hesitated at the rocky, overgrown path that led to her porch. From where she stood, she could see the eaves were charred black; the Deputies had been there, their torches scarring the ceiling. When they entered her shack and found no one there but Arbuckle’s lifeless body, what did they do? When they opened the back door to find the Deputy lying face down in the mud, did they cry out? Did it matter that one of their own was dead? Or did they only care that it had been done by Lady Mae’s own hands, their desire to punish her greater than their loss?

She walked up to the porch and opened the door, stepping into the living room. Although it was early morning, she was met with darkness and the unmistakable scent of rotten flesh. As her eyes adjusted, she expected to see her shack torn apart as Arbuckle’s had been. But everything was as she had left it. They had not gone through her things to find evidence of betrayal, of blasphemy. They did not need it, for they never intended on letting her live. She understood. She had been just a pawn, just like all the other residents, used by the Deputies to get what they wanted.

You wouldn’t let nothing ever happen to me, Arbuckle.

Only thing I was willing was my life for yours, my love.

In the stillness of the room, she walked toward the kitchen. Arbuckle’s body, now mostly just a pile of bones, was where she had left it, slumped up against the wall behind the table. His head still leaned up against the wall, and she buckled and crouched down in front of him. She took the bones of what was his left hand and curled her fingers around them. They were dry and hard, and she wept. There was time now. No one would come for her, so she sat on the floor opposite Arbuckle and, hands entwined, spoke to him.

“I know you might be in there still, Arbuckle. Maybe you can hear me, but even if you can’t, know that you were right. All them words, all them years you talking about forgiveness. I understand—found the letter from my mama. She was right, you know. You were always so hard on yourself, and I know you aimed to be better than your pa. Wish you would’ve known that you were since the day you were born. All that talk about forgiveness. Weren’t about nobody else, were it? Was about what’s in here.” She tapped her chest with one hand. “Were about being able to wake up day in and day out and know you’ve done right by yourself. That’s what tore at you, weren’t it? You always trying to live for someone else. For something else. But that’s what they did, ain’t it? Made it so our lives weren’t never our own. We ain’t had no choice how to live. Only choice we had was how to feel. My mama was right—but you know that. Always was, I suppose. Living by her own truth killed her. Living by yours killed you. Nearly killed me, too. But we did it, didn’t we? Did the right thing in the end, I mean.”