This deputy sitting across the table will surely arrest me for killing Colm, even though I know it was not I who took his life. The ocean took him, as surely as the fire took Martin. Forces of nature stepped in to balance what had been set off-kilter. But how in heaven can I convince him of that?

Worse, I have not made arrangements for Kat if anything should happen to me. I will want her to stay with Belinda, but will that lawyer of hers let her? Might he contact Candace’s cousin in Texas? Is that who will take Kat when I am sent to prison? Or will I be hanged for what I’ve done? Will I be sent back to Ireland first to face my judgment?

All of these thoughts are zipping around in my head like flashes of lightning, each one quick and hard and blazing. I wish it had been me who fell overboard that night in Donaghadee. I wish I’d been the one who’d been hit in the head and plunged into the frigid water. I wish the water had taken me instead, embraced me like a lost soul and carried me far away from this world of sorrows.

Into this cyclone of thoughts I hear a voice. Deputy Logan has asked me a question. I look up at him and he can see that I did not hear it. His arm is extended toward me and in his hand is a clutch of white fabric.

“Would you like a handkerchief?” he says.

A stream of tears has coursed down my cheeks, down my neck, and into my lap.

“It’s not for Colm that I am crying,” I blurt. “It’s not because of what I did.”

“Yes, I know.”

The handkerchief is still extended.

“He killed my daughter.”

Deputy Logan says nothing, but a second later I take the handkerchief. It smells of cedar and lime and pipe tobacco. Such comforting fragrances. They remind me of Da. I press the fabric to my cheeks and I breathe in deep.

And I wait for the deputy to tell me what my fate will be.

He doesn’t say anything for several long moments.

“My concern is the whereabouts of Clyde Merriman, the man you know as Martin Hocking,” he finally says.

I can form no words for a second. “Did . . . did you not hear what I just told you?” I finally ask.

“I heard every word.”

Silence hovers between us.

“Where is he?” the deputy asks seconds later.

“I think . . . I think he might be dead.”

“Did you do something to him?”

The words slip easily off my lips. “I did not save him.”

“Where is he?” the deputy says again.

“I’m not entirely sure anymore.”

“Then why do you think he is dead?”

“Because I saw . . . him.” I refold the handkerchief and place it on the table. He does not reach to take it.

“I want to know everything that happened,” he says. “I want to know how Belinda Bigelow found her way to your house. I want to know why she stayed the night and how you knew Candace was still alive. And I want to know what happened to the man you know as Martin Hocking.”