If his name was Rutherford, then he had to be related to Nathaniel. Too young to be a brother, too old to be a grandson. A nephew, maybe.
I pulled up my skirt, sliding onto the bench seat in the back of the car, and the door closed a little too hard behind me. Then he was rounding the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. He turned the ignition, hand reaching for the switch on the two-way radio that was fixed to the dash.
Esther sat completely still in the truck in front of us, but I could feel her eyes in that rearview mirror. The car turned around, and I swallowed hard before I looked back, one hand clutching to the hot leather of the seatback as I watched her through the dusty rear window. A few seconds later, she was erased from view, disappearing behind the hill.
Eighteen
The courthouse loomed over me as the door of the police car opened, and I stared up at it, a lump in my throat.
If the sheriff wanted to cause a scene, he’d been successful. Nearly everyone on the street had stopped to stare as we climbed the steps. The birds nesting in the eaves above the entrance took off, darting over the roof and out of sight as the doors opened.
“This shouldn’t take long.” Caleb gave me another tight smile, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him.
I tucked my hair behind my ear as I stepped inside, avoiding the gazes of the men and women who passed me. The lobby of the courthouse was more refined than the one I knew, with shining marble walls and floors. The lights were brighter in the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, the murmur of voices making the place feel alive in a way it never had to me before.
The window to the police station was open, a brass placard engraved with the county’s name. Behind the glass, Sam, the police officer who’d pulled over at the river, was seated behind a desk. He got to his feet, opening the door to let us in.
“Mrs. Stone,” he said, the words echoing eerily around us.
I tensed, realizing he was speaking to me. June Stone.
Behind the door, warm wood paneling covered the walls of a narrow room. Papers littered a series of low desks fit with bronze desk lamps, and I could hear the click of a typewriter somewhere up the hall.
“They didn’t believe me when I told ’em I’d seen you the other day.”
The younger officer looked to Caleb with a satisfied smile. He was missing the taut, awkward energy that Caleb carried, but there was still something unspoken in the air that I wasn’t following.
Caleb took off his hat, setting it on one of the desks. “Do we have a room ready, Sam?”
He nodded. “Room four is all set up.”
That meant that he’d planned this. Eamon and Esther had wanted people to lay eyes on me in hopes that it would keep the town from boiling over with curiosity. They hadn’t thought about giving Caleb the opportunity he wanted.
I forced myself to follow the sheriff down the claustrophobic hallway. It felt like it was narrowing by the second. He turned into an open doorway, and I stopped at the threshold, scanning the small room. A wooden table and four chairs sat in its center, where a cardboard box sat unopened. Beside it, a large machine fit with ancient turntables was rigged with shiny black ribbon. It looked like the kind of tape you’d pull from an old cassette. An exact replica was sitting on another small table in the corner.
“June?” Caleb pulled out one of the chairs, waiting.
I stepped inside, swallowing down the sick feeling in my throat as the door closed behind me. I took a seat in the open chair and set my shaking hands into my lap. I didn’t know what I was afraid of, I was just sure that I should be afraid. Of something.
My eyes lifted to the three rectangular windows set into the top of one wall. High and small enough that no one would be able to get through them, I realized.
Caleb took the seat in front of me, scooting in the chair, and Sam stayed standing, positioning himself beside the table in the corner. After a few agonizing seconds, Caleb pressed the red button on the recording device and the wheels started turning.
“Caleb Rutherford, Sheriff, interviewing June Stone on the twentieth of June 1951.” He stretched out his arm, taking a quick look at his watch. “The time is 1:11 P.M. Deputy Samuel Ferguson present.”
The words blurred together as I shifted in the chair. He was watching me closely, eyes skipping from my face to my shoulders before they settled at my throat. I reached up, adjusting my collar to hide the chain of the locket watch. Is that what he was looking at?
He cleared his throat. “Now, June, I know Eamon’s given you some idea of what we’d like to talk about today, but I just want to assure you that all we’re doing here is trying to make the pieces fit together. Can you help us do that?”
I stared at him. The tone of his voice didn’t match the words coming out of his mouth.
“Of course,” I answered.
“Good.”
I nodded, unable to speak past the painful lump in my throat.
“Why don’t you start with where you’ve been for the last eleven months.”
I picked at my fingernail beneath the table anxiously. “In Norfolk. Taking care of my mother.” The answer was rote, repeated exactly from what Eamon and Esther had told me.
“When did you first hear she was ill?”
“I’m not sure. A few days before I left?” It was a total guess, but as long as I kept to the most logical of details, I had the best chance of getting out of whatever this was. June had left suddenly, so if she was going to see her mother, it couldn’t have been planned. “I got a letter.” I added.
Caleb made a note on the pad in front of him. “Do you still have this letter?”
“I don’t think so. I can look.”
“I would appreciate that. And what exactly happened to your mother?”
“She’d had a stroke and needed me to come look after her.”
“So, you’ve been in Norfolk since?”
I nodded.
“Answer aloud for the tape, please.”
“Sorry. Yes.”
“Can you provide the name of the hospital where she was treated?”
I could feel the pulse at my wrist beating harder by the second. “I . . .” I bit down on my lip painfully. “I can’t remember it right off. I can find out.”
“You do that.” He met my eyes long enough to let me know that he thought I was lying. This was a game. One he thought he was winning. From where I sat, it appeared that he was. “Why haven’t you come home to visit in the last year?”
“I couldn’t leave my mother.” I was clumsily filling in the blanks now, grasping for the most reflexive answers.
“I see.” He folded his hands on the table. “Well, it’s been quite a long wait for us to sit down with you. You can imagine that we’re relieved to finally get some of these questions answered.”
I looked to Sam, who still stood by the door. He was facing the opposite wall, no reaction visible on his face.
“Why don’t you take me through that night again,” Caleb said, setting his pen down.
That night. The only thing he could be talking about was the night Nathaniel was murdered, but he’d said again. That meant he’d asked these questions before.
“June?”
“The night of the Faire?”
“Yes. The night of the Midsummer Faire.”