She glances at her daughter and then shifts her gaze back to me. “All right,” she says. “You have it.”

I want to believe she means it. I will have to likewise trust that she does. Here we go, I tell myself.

“Do you remember when I said earlier that Belinda had come to San Francisco looking for the husband she knew as James?” I ask. “And that she saw my wedding portrait with Martin?”

Candace nods, and I begin with that moment in the sitting room, when the portrait frame hit the rug as the kettle screamed in the kitchen. I tell her nearly everything from that moment to our arrival at the Loralei five days later.

I am vague about how Martin fell, telling Candace only that when he lunged at us there had been a struggle and he lost his footing. I don’t tell her about the oddly familiar snippet of time when my arms were outstretched in those seconds as Martin reached for Belinda and I reached to stop him, and I don’t tell her of the paired moment when I looked at Belinda and saw the rush of water and blood spill from between her legs—those memories belong to another time, another place, another girl. They have no place here on this sweltering patio.

And then I ask her again if I have her trust. She says I do.

“Then I’ll tell you exactly what happened at the top of stairs. Everything you and I decide to do next hinges on what truly happened, and whether we report Martin Hocking as a polygamist and possibly the murderer of a rancher’s daughter or whether we don’t.”

She stares at me, wide-eyed. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“If we report Martin to the police, they will begin an investigation. They will ask when was the last time I saw him and many other questions. We can’t have them asking questions, Candace.”

When I say this I glance over at the sleeping child we both love. And when I look back at Candace, I see the exact moment she recalls that I told her that everything I did, I did for Kat.

“What are you telling me?” she says, anger and disbelief and dread thick in her voice. “What happened on those stairs?”

“He was going after Belinda,” I answer quietly, mindful of the sleeping man and the open windows of the hacienda. “Kat already loved her little sister. She already loved her even though she hadn’t been born yet. And Martin, this man who had lied to her about you, was lunging for Belinda. To harm her.”

I see the scene again in my mind. Martin’s arms outstretched to grab Belinda, mine to stop him, Belinda’s to raise the letter opener.

And Kat’s to protect the baby.

“Are you saying Kat pushed him?” Candace whispers.

I hesitate only a second before answering her.

“With every ounce of strength she had.”

22

I don’t believe you,” Candace says as a hot breeze kicks up a swirl of sand a few yards beyond the patio. “Kat wouldn’t do that. She’s not like him!”