Deputy Iverson looked up, and their eyes met. She did not blink nor avert hers, not even when she felt his stare burn into her own. On her lips were my mama and kill you dead and six years I been waiting. She took another step.

He let out a huh and a thick laugh as his lips curled up into a smile. He held the pencil between two of his fat fingers and pointed it toward Lady Mae. “Spoke with Arbuckle just now on my way to you,” he said. “Had to get a statement, of course.”

“Then you ain’t need nothing more from me,” she said.

“He was poking around what’s left of his place.”

“He’s got every right.”

“Well now,” he went on, ignoring her. “Let’s just hope he does what he’s told and doesn’t go causing more trouble than he’s worth. Be a shame if he went the same way as his pa.”

A sudden terror found its way into the space between her bones. She felt it deep inside, primal and innate. Her feet, heavy and hot, ground into the rotting wood of the last porch step. The stench of the dirty rags wafted up toward her, and a single drop of sweat found its way down her temple and into her eye. She tried to blink it away, but it remained, salty and burning underneath her lid.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

The Deputy looked to his left and then his right as if wary, as if to make sure that no one was around to witness the words he spoke. Lady Mae did, too. But there was no one there. Then he refocused on Lady Mae, squinted in the bright light, and said, “Just noticed is all.”

Her hand cramped and stung from holding on to the pail so tightly. It’d just take one swing—she had good aim—and even if it didn’t do the trick it’d at least knock him out. Then she could bring the pail to his head three times the same way he’d brought his club to her mother’s; he’d shown no mercy, and mercy he would not get.

But then she thought of Arbuckle. They’d find him and string him up if she tried anything. If she ran, they’d use him as bait to get her to return. They’d kill him either way and tell the other residents that he was just like his father, no better than a scoundrel. Though vengeance coursed through her, wave-like, and brimmed in the bottom of her eyes, there was nothing she could do. She was looking at the man who murdered her mother on that late summer’s night. They held each other’s gaze, each knowing what the other knew, and neither looked away.

“So how many, Lady Mae?”

“Like I said, he ain’t attack me.”

“Did he lay hands on you?” he asked.

“Aye, but only ’cause I was in the way,” she replied.

“You know the law. All involved got a right to punish.”