“What do you want from me?” My voice is not much more than a whisper.

“I want the truth,” the deputy says.

“I can’t tell you,” I murmur, my eyes shut tight. I can’t. I can’t.

“You can. And you will.” His words are hard, but they are spoken gently, as though to empower me to say what he wants to hear.

I open my eyes.

He is looking at me with a gentler gaze than when I first sat down with him. It’s almost as if we are no longer officer of the law and suspected accomplice. We are two people who know the world harbors cruel people who often go unpunished.

But I say nothing.

He points to the death certificate that rests between us. “Sophie Whalen was your sister, fifteen months younger than you. She died of a fever when she was three. You assumed her identity when you left Ireland. I want to know why.”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He has that thick file with all those papers and he still wants to know why I took my sister’s name. I want to press my hands to my ears to shut out his question and the roar of fear, but my arms won’t move.

What answer shall I give him? What answer can I concoct that will satisfy him and ring true? What can I say that will keep me safe and still sound believable?

What do I say?

But I can’t think. I can’t!

When I remain silent, the deputy reaches into the file and pulls out another document and pushes it toward me. I close my eyes so that I don’t have to see it. He says nothing as he waits, supposing that I will in fact look at it after all.

He is right. When I open my eyes, I see a copy of a birth certificate for Saoirse Colleen Whalen.

The girl I was.

“Where did you get these?” I whisper.

“They are public records. Anyone can access them.”

He pulls out another document. And another. And another.

A marriage certificate uniting Saoirse Whalen and Colm McGough.

A death certificate for the infant daughter of Colm and Saoirse McGough, born too soon.

Colm McGough’s death certificate, dated three months before I immigrated to America. Cause of death? Accidental drowning.

“I wrote to the authorities in County Down and inquired about the drowning death of Colm McGough in Donaghadee. I received a notice by return post that the ruling was accidental but that there was doubt among his family members that it was truly an accident. He wasn’t at sea; his boat was tied up at the pier when he fell overboard. He knew how to swim. The police had wanted to talk to his widow but she left soon after he was buried and no one has seen her since.”

I can only stare at the documents laid out in front of me. More tears slip down my cheeks.

Kat.