All through the years, she had wondered if he was still alive. Mam told her when she was still a young girl that the San Francisco Police had long ago believed him to be dead. But there had been no body. They had held no funeral. He didn’t feel dead to her. He didn’t feel alive, either. She hasn’t spoken of him in as long as she can remember.

When she was twelve, Mam married a man from San Rafaela who owned a vineyard and who asked her to call him by any name she wanted. She has always called him Da because it makes Mam and Gram smile when she does and because she loves Sam like a father. He has always loved her like a daughter. She never thinks about this other man anymore. But she wonders now why he is still using names that do not belong to him, and why he lies, and why he likes to hurt people.

She’s not sure if she should tell anyone about this when she returns home. Perhaps she will tell Victor, who is at home with their eighteen-month-old son. Perhaps only him.

If Clayton Sharpe is convicted, he will be executed. The newspaper stated it is what the prosecutors have asked for. He will hang. In that case, nothing will change for her and Mam and Belinda, will it? Perhaps if he is found not guilty she will have a decision to make, because then he will be free. She contemplates what she will do if the jury does not convict him. She contemplates how she will feel if it does.

The room is called to order as the judge takes his seat, and then the jury is brought in. The bailiff hands the jury’s decision to the judge. He looks at the piece of paper and then hands it back. The accused man is ordered to stand. She watches him rise from his chair unsteadily, using a cane for balance. One leg appears to be slightly shorter than the other.

The decision is read aloud.

Clayton Sharpe has been found guilty of first-degree murder in the death of Bernice Templeton Sharpe and is sentenced therefore to death by hanging.

Cries of elation and relief erupt in the gallery. She feels nothing more than a pinch of sadness for what could have been if this man had been someone else. But he was who he was.

She watches as the condemned man is prepared to be escorted out of the courtroom. As he turns, he casts his gaze across the gallery and their eyes meet. It’s been twenty years, but it appears he would know her eyes anywhere, too.

A crooked jawline produces a lopsided grin that is disturbingly attractive. “Kitty Kat,” he murmurs.

She does not smile back. She holds up her left hand as if to adjust her collar but it is so that he can see the wedding band around her ring finger. It is the only way she can think of to tell him that despite all that he did to her, she’s been loved every day since she last saw him. Every day. They all have.