“May we begin?” he says.

At first the questions are the same as those I answered when I first reported Martin missing. But as the minutes go by and as the woman in the room taps out everything I say, the deputy’s questions become more and more about me. He keeps looking at the papers in that file. So many papers.

He asks me if I saw Martin the day of the quake, if I knew that Martin was traveling back to San Francisco that day or that his automobile had been found outside San Rafaela on the road to San Francisco.

He knows about Belinda.

He knows Belinda was in my house the morning of the quake and he knows Martin was married to Belinda all the while being married to me.

He knows about Candace.

God in heaven, he knows about Annabeth.

My head is spinning. Deputy Logan has so many papers. What else does he know? The room is getting warm and I want to leave.

I rise to go because we are no longer talking about the whereabouts of Martin Hocking. He is instead accusing me of being an accomplice of Martin’s, of being a part of his terrible schemes. Of collaborating with him to get to Belinda’s gold and Kat’s inheritance.

But the deputy bids me to please retake my seat, that it will be better for me if I finish the interview.

Better for me? How can anything he is saying be better for me? This man thinks I am like Martin Hocking. I am nothing like Martin. How dare he suggest I am?

The deputy just wants the truth, that’s all he wants, he says, and I tell him I have been telling him the truth.

But, no, he says. I’ve not been telling him the truth. I tell him I have. And he says I have been lying to him since the moment I sat down and told him my name.

30

Beads of sweat break out on my forehead and on the back of my neck, even though the room has suddenly gone cold.

“My name is Sophie Hocking.” I force myself to look Deputy Logan straight in the eye. I say it again. “My name is Sophie Hocking.”

The deputy says nothing. He doesn’t pull out a sheet of paper from that bulging file of his, and he doesn’t contradict me. He just continues to look at me, studying my face.

“I have done nothing wrong,” I continue, as a strange calm fills my bosom. I don’t know where this quiet resolve is coming from, but I hold fast to it. “I wed a man who I thought was free to marry. I love his child. I have done all I can to give that little girl everything she needs for a happy life, including taking her to her real mother when it would’ve been far easier for me to keep her for myself. I cared for Belinda, I practically delivered her child, and I searched for her day and night after we got separated. I have taken no gold of hers. None. And, yes, I manage Kat’s trust, but I can show you every receipt of everything I have bought since I became her guardian. I have paid for our room and board. I have bought her clothes for school and crayons and paper and I’ve replaced puzzles and dolls and books that the fire stole from her. I’ve put money into a savings account that will be Kat’s when she is older, and I’m saving some each week to build a house for her so that no matter what happens to me she will always have a home in which to live. What does it matter what my name is, I ask you? A name is nothing. It is just words on a piece of paper. This is who I am. Despite everything that has happened to me, despite everything that’s been done to me, I am still a person who knows how to love people. This is who I am.”