The truck rattled and slid more than once, but by noon I had reached town. I parked behind the general store and went first to the pawn counter, where I sold the comb for just enough money to pay for what I needed: train fare, if it came to that. A room, if I had to hide. But more importantly, I needed information.
I went next to the county records office.
The clerk there was a widow named Mrs. Bell, thin as a fence rail and nosy in the way many lonely people are. She recognized me immediately.
“Mrs. Harlan,” she said, peering over her spectacles. “Newly married and already in town alone?”
I forced a smile. “I’m looking for an old death certificate.”
Her brows rose. “Family business?”
“Yes,” I said, and for once it was not entirely a lie.
She led me to a shelf of ledgers. Records in Saint Jude were poorly kept but not impossible to find. I spent nearly an hour turning pages until I found it.
Mara Harlan. Deceased: April 17, 1990.
Cause of death: accidental gun discharge.
Informant: Walter Harlan.
My stomach tightened.
Then I noticed something strange. Attached to the corner of the page was a folded slip, yellowed with age. I carefully opened it.
There had been a witness statement once.
It was unsigned, but part of it remained legible:
“…boy present in barn… child hysterical… kept repeating ‘he hurt her’…”
The rest had been crossed out in thick black ink.
I heard footsteps and quickly folded the paper back.
When I looked up, Mrs. Bell was standing in the aisle, watching me.
Her expression had changed.
“What are you doing with that file?” she asked quietly.
I held her gaze. “Finding out the truth.”
For a moment neither of us moved.
Then, to my surprise, her shoulders sagged.
“Some of us knew,” she said.
The words struck like a slap.
“What do you mean, some of us knew?”
She looked toward the front office to be sure no one else was listening. “Not everything. But enough. Walter Harlan was feared. Men like that often are. Your husband’s mother came to church with bruises more than once. Then she died, and people accepted the story because it was easier.”
“Easier than helping?”
Her face flinched.
“Yes.”
I stepped closer. “Who crossed out that witness statement?”
Mrs. Bell hesitated. “Sheriff Nolan.”
“Is he still sheriff?”
“No. Retired. Lives on Birch Road now.”
“And Walter Harlan?”
Her mouth pressed into a line. “Dead these last six years.”
Relief flooded me so fast my knees weakened. Dead. The monster was dead.
But that relief lasted only a second.
Because death had not undone what he had done. It had only left the lies behind.
I asked for a copy of the record. Mrs. Bell gave it to me without another word.
Before I left, she caught my sleeve. “If you’re doing this for Elias, be careful. Old sins make dangerous men when dragged into daylight.”
I almost laughed at that.
As if daylight had ever been gentle.
When I stepped back into the street, two men were standing near the truck. One of them was my father.
The sight of him turned my blood to ice.
Harold Vance looked exactly as he always had—lean, red-nosed from drink, wearing the same stained hat he’d worn for years. Beside him stood Deputy Mercer, broad and smug, his thumbs hooked in his belt.
“Well,” my father drawled, “there’s my runaway girl.”
I stopped several feet away. “Move.”
Deputy Mercer grinned. “Your husband know you took his truck?”
“He will.”
My father stepped forward. “You think being married makes you too good to listen now?”
Something in me, already frayed and burning, snapped cleanly in two.
“No,” I said. “I think being married showed me exactly what a decent man looks like.”
His face darkened.
“You ungrateful little—”
“Did you know?” I cut in. “About Elias’s mother?”
He froze.
That was answer enough.
“You knew what kind of family you were tying me to.”
“I knew he had money,” my father spat. “That was enough.”
The deputy shifted uneasily. “Harold, maybe—”
“Enough for you,” I said, voice shaking with fury. “You sold me for fifty dollars.”
My father sneered. “And you were fed and clothed for twenty-three years before that.”
For a heartbeat the whole street seemed to go silent.
Then another voice came from behind me.
“She doesn’t belong to you.”
I turned.
Elias was standing at the far end of the boardwalk, snow melting on his shoulders, one gloved hand clenched at his side. He must have followed my tracks to town in the old feed wagon or borrowed a horse from someone on the edge of the county. I had no idea. I only knew he was here.
And he was furious.
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