Carson City, Nevada
1926
The courtroom brims with family members of the victim, journalists, and—like the woman in the third row—the curious. A verdict has been reached, and those in the gallery are eager for the jury to return to their seats.
The man accused of murder is sitting with his back to the spectators. The woman can see that his hair is graying now and that it has lost some of its wave. She wouldn’t have recognized him from this angle. She has not yet seen his face.
It was the photograph in a Nevada newspaper of a man charged with poisoning his wife that caught her eye. She is in Carson City only to attend a wedding. She wouldn’t have known of the Clayton Sharpe trial concluding today if she had not glanced at the newspaper at the hotel’s breakfast table. She had known it was him the instant she saw the photograph. She would know those eyes anywhere.
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.
He furrows his brow like he doesn’t understand.
Because he doesn’t.
Mam told her this. Ages ago. Before he disappeared from their lives like a phantom.
He doesn’t know the way of love.
And then he is gone from the room and people begin to stand and talk to one another.
The journalist sitting next to her turns to her. “Did he just say ‘kitty cat’ to you? Do you know him?” His tone is incredulous and his notepad is open for her answer.
“I’ve never met Clayton Sharpe,” she replies with a start.
“But he said ‘kitty cat’ to you just now. I heard him.”
She is about to answer that she does not know the man when the older gentleman sitting next to her on her other side says, “The lady has kindly told you she has never met Clayton Sharpe.”
The journalist shakes his head, and as he stands to leave, he shoves his tablet and pencil in his pocket.
Kat turns in her seat to face the man who came to her aid. He is a bit older than Sam—early fifties, she thinks. His brown hair is flecked with gray, and he is wearing plain clothes, but a law enforcement badge of some kind is pinned to his vest pocket and is peeking out from under his suit coat.
“Thank you,” she says.
“I, too, have never met Clayton Sharpe, but I’ve been looking forward to seeing him in a court of law for a long time.”
Kat says nothing.
“I am a U.S. marshal,” the man says, opening one side of his coat briefly and showing her the badge. “I knew this man by a different name many years ago. I was in San Francisco then, several months after that terrible earthquake.” His kind gaze is intent on her now, and the room suddenly feels too small, the walls too close.
He is looking at her with a gaze that speaks words she is meant to understand. And she does.
“I’m afraid I must go,” Kat says, rising to her feet, the blood in her veins rushing. “I’ve a friend’s wedding to attend.”
He rises as well. Quickly. “Will you be all right?” he says gently, and he nods ever so slightly toward the door where Clayton Sharpe exited the courtroom. Kat stares at the U.S. marshal for a long moment. Somehow this man knows why Clayton Sharpe called her “Kitty Kat.” But there’s something about the fatherly way the marshal is looking at her that makes her want to answer him rather than abruptly take her leave. The marshal knows what the convicted man did to her all those years ago, and to people she loves.
He knows.
“I will be fine,” she replies, matching his soothing tone. “I am fine. I don’t know Clayton Sharpe. He is a stranger to me.”
The marshal smiles. He looks relieved. Satisfied. “Good day to you, then, madam.”
She moves away from him and the gallery chairs and steps out into the aisle. She pauses a second, and then turns toward the marshal. “And a good day to you, too, sir.” Then she faces the oak doors that lead to the world outside.
Kat walks briskly out of the courthouse and into the golden afternoon.