Candace holds my gaze, her brow a wee bit furrowed. “But you’re not my sister-in-law. Martin doesn’t have a brother.”

“I know. It’s just an answer for anyone who asks. How many even will?”

“Or,” Candace says slowly, as though she is still puzzling out a solution. “Or we can just tell anyone around here who asks that Kat is Sophie’s daughter and that I am the relative. And if locals ask where Sophie’s husband is, and if she feels so inclined to answer, she can tell them that he sadly perished in the earthquake and fire, which is true.”

There isn’t a sound around the table at this suggestion.

“I . . . I would never ask you to do that,” I finally sputter.

“You aren’t. I am saying it makes the most sense. We need to keep alive the ruse of Martin’s marriage to you to protect you and Kat from any kind of criminal prosecution—and you, too, Belinda; you were there; you knew what happened and did nothing—then it makes the most sense. You know it does. I’ll soon be gone. It makes the most sense.”

“But . . . Kat’s inheritance. Don’t you want her to have the money your grandmother left you? You told me it can only be bequeathed to your child,” I counter.

“Kat will still receive the inheritance,” Candace says wearily. The length of this conversation is exhausting her. “We’ll just tell people here she is your daughter. My lawyer in Los Angeles knows Kat is my child. He also knows I am dying. I’ll instruct him to draw up a document appointing you as my daughter’s legal guardian, Sophie, so that if you should ever need to prove you are the rightful person to raise her, you will have it.”

“Won’t your lawyer wonder who I am?”

“I’ll tell him you are my sister-in-law, just like you said, that you married Martin’s brother. That’s why your last name is also Hocking. He won’t know Martin didn’t have a brother.”

“But, Candace—,” Belinda begins, and Candace cuts her off.

“Look. I know she’s my Kitty Kat. I know it, and that’s all that matters. The rest is how we keep her safe and the rest of you able to care for her. And this is how we do it.”

• • •

The next day, the first Friday in June, Elliot arrives at the inn to take me to the depot to board the first train of the day for San Francisco. My plan is to do what I need to do and return by evening, as staying overnight in a city of refugees is out of the question. From what I have read in the San Francisco Examiner, which Elliot has been able to procure for me a time or two, Golden Gate Park is still a tent city of thousands upon thousands of homeless. Kat and I were lucky to have the Loralei to escape to. Too many others don’t have such a place.