CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

 

Justine didn’t walk home from the cemetery, she ran. The flood of information spurred her on. She had proof that Uriah was a murderer. She knew that Virginia’s children were alive.

Did they still live with the Krupman’s in Topeka?

An open carriage pulled beside her as she ran. “Miss? Are you all right?”

She stopped to grab a breath, standing tall to get air beneath her corset. Then she recognized the man in the carriage. “Mayor Usher?”

He cocked his head, as if trying to remember her. “Miss Bronson?”

“Braden. We met at Talbot’s?”

“Yes. You were new in town.”

“I was.” She got an idea and took another deep breath. “Could I speak with you? It’s very important.”

“It must be, for you to be running so.” He called out to his driver. “Wilson?”

The driver got off his perch and folded down the step for her. She entered the carriage and sat across from the mayor.

This was not a coincidence. It was her chance to speak to someone in authority.

But how to begin? She couldn’t tell him she had witnessed Uriah’s past crimes, for often she was the only witness. On her travels. Which she couldn’t speak about.

The carriage pulled away. “Yes, Miss Braden? How can I help you?”

“I . . . I have evidence against a certain citizen.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Murder.”

The mayor jerked back. “That is a serious charge.”

“It is a serious crime.”

“Who was murdered?”

“Joe Trotter.”

“I don’t know him.”

Here was the tricky part. “He was murdered in 1872.”

He made an incredulous face. “That’s a very long time ago.”

“There isn’t a time-restriction for convicting a killer, is there?”

“I believe you’re referring to a statute of limitation, a time beyond which a crime cannot be prosecuted. And no, for murder, there is no limitation.”

“Good. Then how do I proceed?”

“My, my, Miss Braden. When I got up this morning, I never expected to have a conversation about murder.

“Neither did I. I need to speak with the police.”

“That would be the proper step. Would you like to go there now?”

“Please.”

He told Wilson where to drive. “Would you care to tell me the name of the accused?”

She hesitated. “I’d prefer to tell the police first.”

“Very well.”

She hoped it would turn out very well indeed.

 

**

 

Justine had completely forgotten about Alva’s arrest.

Thomas and Harland were at the police station. Just the people she wanted to see.

Harland kissed her cheek. “You’re back already?”

“With proof,” she said quietly. “I’m here to speak with the police about a murder.”

“Who died?”

She shook her head. “Not now. Where is Alva?”

Thomas pointed to the back. “She’s in a jail cell.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Agreed,” Thomas said. “We’ve been trying to get her released but they won’t do anything until Uriah gets here.”

She smiled. “I’m glad he’s coming.”

“Why?” Harland asked.

“Because I have proof he murdered someone.”

“Murder?” An officer sitting nearby looked up from his desk. “Murder, you say?”

And here we go . . . Justine stepped forward. “I want to report a murder.”

She was heartened when he stood and offered her a chair. Finally, someone to listen.

Harland and Thomas stood behind her. She appreciated their support.

The officer returned to his place and took up a pen. He was the same officer who’d come to the house. Crandell? “What is your name?”

“Justine Braden.”

“What is the name of the deceased?”

“Joe Trotter.”

“Joseph?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did he die?”

“Eighteen-seventy-two. In the spring.”

He began to write it down, then looked up. “As in seven years ago?”

“Yes.”

He set his pen down. “This is rather unusual.”

“A murder is a crime no matter when it occurred, is it not?”

“It is, but . . .” He repeated himself. “This is rather unusual.”

“I concur.”

“Do you know the name of the killer?”

“I do.” She fueled herself with a fresh breath. “Uriah Benedict.”

His bushy eyebrows rose. He picked up a newspaper from his desk and pointed at Uriah’s picture. “Mr. Benedict is a respected member of this community.”

The public accolades didn’t help her case. “I’m aware of that impression.” She knew her words were far from passive.

The officer looked annoyed, but took out a pencil and sheet of paper and pointed to a nearby desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Braden. There’s something I need to attend to. Please write down what you know, giving as many details as you can.” He left.

“I’m being dismissed,” she said. “He doesn’t believe me. Or doesn’t want to believe me.”

“It’s not just a question of belief,” Harland said. “It’s also a question of urgency—or lack of urgency for a murder seven years past.”

She understood that. “They want a statement? I will give them one.” She moved her chair to the table and began to write. Or tried to write.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.

“I can’t write about what I saw because there’s no logical explanation for how I saw it.”

“Can you say where it happened?”

“I can tell them—show them—where he’s buried.”

“Do that,” Harland said, pointing at the page.

She wrote details of the road, the field, the creek. She began to write about the bottle in his pocket, then stopped. “I can’t write this part.”

“What part?” Thomas asked.

She lowered her voice for their ears alone. “Caesar and I were present when Trotter was killed. We buried him. To make sure people knew who he was and who killed him, I wrote a note, rolled it up, and put it in an empty laudanum bottle in his vest pocket.”

“That’s smart,” Harland said.

“I thought so. But I can’t write that down. I can’t know about the bottle.”

“They have to discover it,” Thomas said.

Justine looked at the page where she’d only written a few lines. “I have to get them to go to the gravesite. They need to find him.”

“Is the grave still there?” Harland asked.

Waves of doubt crashed over her. What if she succeeded in getting the police to the grave and it was gone? Trotter was gone? Her credibility would be ruined. Yet without them seeing it, and discovering the bottle and the truth inside . . . If only Caesar were alive to corroborate the murder.

She heard the front door of the police station open and turned to see Uriah.

And Mayor Usher.

Officer Crandell returned and rushed to greet the mayor. “Mayor Usher. How can I help you today?”

He caught Justine’s eye. “I gave Miss Braden a lift to the station and wanted to see how she’s being treated.”

Crandell’s face grew mottled. “Oh. Well. She’s writing down her statement.”

Uriah stepped up. “I believe my issue has precedence. I’m picking up my wife.”

Crandell took one step toward Uriah, then one step toward Justine, then stopped. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Benedict.”

The mayor chuckled. “We flustered the poor boy.”

“A police officer shouldn’t get flustered,” Uriah said.

“Ease up, Benedict,” the mayor said.

Justine stifled a smile.

Alva was escorted to the front. She walked by Justine without a glance before rushing into Uriah’s arms. “Oh, Uriah. I’m so sorry. So sorry. Take me home.”

Uriah graced her with a single hand on her back. He did not comfort her, he tolerated her. Barely.

“I’m glad you’re ready to leave this nonsense behind.”

“I am. Truly, I am.”

They turned to leave.

Justine couldn’t let them do that. She stood, nearly knocking over her chair. “Ur . . . Uriah Benedict, you are a murderer!”

He slowly turned his head to glare at her. “What did you say?”

The beating of her heart made her temples throb but she couldn’t back down. “You murdered Joe Trotter. You stabbed him to death and tossed him off the side of the road.”

Uriah turned around fully. “I don’t know any Joe Trotter.”

“You did. You killed him as though he was nothing.”

“When did I do this?”

If only I didn’t have to say. “In 1872.”

He scoffed and nodded to the mayor. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have given her a ride, Mayor. She’s clearly delusional. I hear Ravenwood is good with such people.” His smirk made Justine want to slap him.

Officer Crandell looked relieved when an older officer came in the room. “What’s going on here?” the older man asked him.

“Mr. Benedict has come for his wife, but this woman here, has accused him of murder.”

Uriah brushed a speck of dust from his hat and scoffed. “Nothing to bother about, Chief. Now if you don’t mind, I want to get my wife home where she belongs.”

“I’m sure you do, but just a minute, please.” He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Justine. “You say there’s been a murder?”

“There has.” She retrieved her deposition. “Here. I wasn’t through, but I’ve noted the location of the body.”

The chief began to read the page, only to be interrupted by Uriah. “There’s no need to read anything, Bonner. This woman is delusional.”

Police Chief Bonner held up a hand and continued reading. “This is a serious accusation, Miss . . .”

“Braden. Justine Braden.” She quickly introduced Thomas and Harland. “Murder is serious. Justice must be done. As I wrote, you’ll find Mr. Trotter buried at that location. I would be happy to accompany you to the site.”

Uriah sighed deeply. “I’m sorry you’re having to waste your time with this, Chief. And you, Mayor Usher. This woman’s accusation is absurd and distressing.”

“It certainly is the latter,” the mayor said.

Uriah seemed surprised Usher hadn’t agreed with his full statement.

The Chief nodded at the page. “She gives a location of the body. I can’t ignore it.”

“You must ignore it,” Uriah said. “Logic must prevail. One must wonder how this woman knows I killed a man in 1872.”

The chief looked at her. “It is a good question, Miss Braden.”

“Especially considering you are new in town,” the mayor added .

The three men looked at her for answers. “Someone else saw the murder; witnessed it,” she said.

“Who?” Uriah asked.

Justine knew her answer wouldn’t go over well even before she said it. “Caesar Johnson.”

Uriah rolled his eyes. “The witness to this alleged death is dead himself. Really, Miss Braden.” He looked to the police chief. “Chief Bonner, will you please officially put an end to this woman’s mad accusation? As the accused, I have a right to question the witness. Which I can’t. Therefore . . .”

A flow of words forced their way out. “That’s because you killed the witness! You pushed Caesar down the stairs before he could share details of all your crimes.”

The air vibrated with her words.

“So now I’ve killed two people?”

“More than that, I’m sure.”

“You’re sure?” He actually grinned.

Justine glanced at Harland and Thomas. They looked worried. She was worried. “You killed Josiah Dawson too.”

“Who?”

“The Dawsons owned a farm east of town.”

“When was this?”

Justine wanted to find a jail cell to hide in. “August 21, 1863.”

Mayor Usher raised a hand. “That’s the day of the Lawrence Massacre.”

“It is,” Justine said. “Mr. Benedict was a member of Quantrill’s raiders who rode onto the Dawson property and killed Josiah in front of his wife, causing her to have a heart attack and also die.”

Uriah’s jaw tightened. Was she getting to him? “Once again, I ask: how do you know? Who saw me?”

“Their daughter Virginia saw you. And her brother Cole.”

“Have them come forth and make these accusations in person.”

Complications came to mind: Virginia hadn’t recognized Spencer as Wat, her father’s murderer. Instead, she’d married him.

“Where is this Virginia?” Uriah asked.

I dug this hole . . . “You locked her away back in seventy-one.”

Uriah handily changed the subject. “Miss Braden states I was involved in crimes from 1863 and 1872? That’s not possible. I moved here in seventy-three.” He turned to his wife. “Isn’t that right, Alva?”

Alva’s face was torn with conflict. “I think so.”

Uriah dismissed her with a wave of annoyance. He sighed dramatically. “So. This Violet person saw me kill her father?”

“Virginia. Your wife.”

He nodded. “Who is a patient at Ravenwood. Because she’s crazy.”

“You said she was, but she wasn’t. Never was.”

“Does she live there now?”

Oh dear. “She does. But . . .”

“But?”

This would not go well. “She lives there voluntarily.”

Uriah spread his hands. “Which is proof she is crazy.”

Justine shook her head, vehemently. “She is no such thing. She lost everything. She had nowhere to go. That’s why she chose to stay.”

Uriah laughed. “A woman who chooses to stay in a lunatic asylum? That proves her insanity.”

“She would not be the best of witnesses, Miss Braden,” the mayor said.

Uriah wasn’t done poking holes in her story. “Where is her brother? Ask him to come forward and speak against me.”

“Cole is dead. You killed him too. You pushed him off the loft in their barn.”

“More pushing.” Uriah chuckled. “Again, Miss Braden, how do you know this? Do you have another non-witness to accuse me?”

Just me.

Uriah threw his hands in the air. “Why would I kill . . . what was his name?”

“You know his name very well. He was your brother-in-law.”

He studied her a moment. “Why would I kill this man?”

“Because Cole didn’t want you to sell the family farm without Virginia’s permission. Without his permission.”

“What farm is this?”

“The Dawson farm, where you led the raid and killed their father.”

He gave her a blank stare.

“Near Eudora.”

“I assure you, I do not own a farm near Eudora.”

“You don’t now, because you sold it. Without consulting your wife.”

He looked at Alva. “Alva, are you aware of this farm?”

Alva hugged herself and stared into the space between them. She looked scared to death. Justine knew she wouldn’t be any help.

“Alva, answer me.”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

Uriah pointed at Justine. “These accusations are beyond the bounds of bearing. You’ve known me for years, Mayor Usher. You too, Chief Bonner. Do I own a farm?”

“Not that I know of,” the chief said.

“Not since I’ve known you,” the mayor said.

Father, help me! The complexities of Uriah’s life rushed through her mind like leaves blowing in the wind. She didn’t know which one to grab, and doubted her ability to grab any at all. But she had to try. “Uriah Benedict didn’t own the farm because he hasn’t always been Uriah Benedict. His name before that was Spencer Meade. He married Virginia, got her property, then sold it.

“After committing her to Ravenwood,” Bonner said.

Their blank faces said it all. This was not going well. Justine tried to pinpoint the one fact that would bring him down. “You were also a bank robber with the James-Younger gang, committing crimes with Frank and Jesse James. You robbed the Liberty Bank in 1866.”

Uriah started to laugh, and took a seat in the foyer, crossing his legs as if he hadn’t a care. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “My secret is out. Now you all know where I got my money.”

Although Justine knew she was racing down a mountain with no brakes, she had to finish this. “Your . . . your name wasn’t Spencer Meade then, you were called Wat. Lionel Watkins.”

He counted on his fingers. “Three names? Have I any others?”

She should never have mentioned the robberies. But then Justine thought of Helene. If she mentioned her rape . . . that crime might be despicable enough for them to take notice.

“Miss Braden?” Uriah said. “Are you through falsely disparaging my character? May we move on?”

Justine’s thoughts raced. Back at the school Helene had been adamant that she would never testify against Uriah. She’d moved on with her life. It would do no good to mention yet another crime that couldn’t be corroborated.

But there was another crime Uriah had committed when he was Lionel . . .

Uriah pressed his hands against his thighs and stood. “Since Miss Braden is done ranting—”

“I am not done,” she said. “When you were living under the name of Lionel Watkins you spent time at the Bedford Springs resort in Pennsylvania.”

“Now that is a crime.”

Officer Crandell chuckled, then covered his mouth. “Sorry.”

Justine continued. “In 1860, while there, you conned my mother out of a ruby necklace. I was there with her and—”

Oops.

“I’m sorry. I prefer emeralds,” he said.

Even the mayor laughed.

“You stole my mother’s necklace and gave it to Alva.” Justine rushed to Alva’s side. “Tell them you have a ruby necklace. The one you were wearing when we went to your house for dinner.”

She blinked. “Yes, I do, but . . .”

“So what if she does?” Uriah said.

Alva’s eyes were full of pain. “I’m sorry, Justine.”

Uriah raised a finger. “If I was at some resort as Lionel Watson—”

“Watkins.”

“Lionel Watkins in 1860, and you were at the resort with your mother and were a witness to some theft? That was 19 years ago. How old were you?”

Oh dear. Father, help me! “My mother told me about it.”

“Did she now. May we speak with her?”

Justine’s throat went dry. “She died last year.”

“How convenient.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Braden,” the mayor said. “This isn’t productive.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. “I beg you, please go to the grave and see the evidence—the proof—that Uriah Benedict killed Joe Trotter.”

“This has gone on long enough,” Uriah said with a dismissive wave. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to get my wife home.”

“He’s poisoning his wife!” Justine grabbed Alva’s arm. “Tell them how sick you’ve been. Tell them about his threats, and . . .”

“Is this true, Mrs. Benedict?” Mayor Usher said.

Alva looked sick.

“Please, Alva,” Justine said.

“I . . . I have been sick a lot.”

Uriah threw up his hands. “Well then. A woman who feels ill is surely proof of a crime. If that were so, every household in Kansas would contain a victim and a criminal.”

“It isn’t proof, Miss Braden,” Bonner said.

Uriah raised a hand. “Au contraire, Chief. My wife’s illness is the ultimate proof of my criminal nature. She feels ill so it must be poison.” He glared at Justine. “Were there any witnesses to this horrific act?”

Justine’s heart sank. “There was.”

“Pray tell us his or her name.”

Her stomach turned. “Caesar Johnson.”

It was over. There was no hope.

Harland stepped forward. “There is one way to prove Miss Braden’s initial claim. Go out to the grave and see the evidence as she’s asked. If it’s not there, it’s over. If it is . . . you must consider everything she has said.”

“I agree with you, Dr. Jennings,” Uriah said. “Let’s find this grave from seven years ago. Then we can set all this nonsense aside.”

Justine’s initial relief faded quickly. Why was Uriah agreeable?

 

**

 

Justine was nervous as she rode in the buggy with Harland and Thomas. “Why did Uriah agree to go to the grave?”

“Not just agree to it, but encourage it,” Thomas said.

“So you’re worried too?” Justine ran her hands up and down her arms, suddenly cold

Harland put an arm around her shoulders. “He’s a shifty man. We can’t trust him.”

She nodded. “He countered every crime or offense I mentioned.”

“He was very smooth,” Thomas said.

“As all conmen are,” Harland added.

This wasn’t helping. She had to focus on the task at hand. “Once they find the bottle I buried with Joe, it will do him in.”

“Bottle?” her father asked.

She hadn’t told him about it. “Caesar and I buried Joe, and Caesar mentioned that we needed to make sure people knew who it was. He got me a laudanum bottle from the back of the wagon and we emptied it. Then I wrote a note that said the dead man was Joe Trotter and he was murdered by Spencer Meade in 1872.”

Harland sucked in a breath. “Spencer Meade.”

“Yes, that’s who Uriah was when he killed him.”

“But he’s not Spencer Meade now.” Harland withdrew his arm from her shoulders. When he looked at her his face was pulled with worry. “Even though you tried to connect Lionel, Spencer, and Uriah, you really didn’t.”

Justine wanted to scream. “I thought about putting ‘Uriah’ on the note, but then I it would be unexplainable since Uriah didn’t become Uriah until years later. It would make it harder to believe that Joe was killed in 1872.”

They rode a moment in silence. “That was good reasoning,” Thomas said.

It was little consolation. “Please help us, Lord,” she whispered.

“Amen,” her father said.

 

**

 

Justine’s surrey led two other carriages down the side road that Justine had last traveled seven years’ previous. It was little improved and was dusty and bumpy.

The road may not have changed, but the trees marking the creek had. Harland helped her down. In the second carriage were Uriah and Alva, and in the third—in the mayor’s carriage—was the mayor, Chief Bonner, and Officer Crandell, carrying a shovel.

“Where now, Miss Braden?” Uriah asked.

The mayor had her deposition with him. “Says here it’s down by a creek, to the south.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Come this way.”

They walked through the field, between the rows of crops, just coming up. With every step Justine prayed Let us find him, let us find him, let us . . .

As soon as she reached the bank she quickly looked around, trying to see anything that looked familiar. The grave had been on a high bank. And the makeshift marker. . . Hopefully animals hadn’t disturbed it. Hopefully it hadn’t been swept away by spring flooding.

“Where is this grave, Miss Braden?” Mayor Usher asked.

She was on the verge of panic when she spotted the stone, mostly covered by grasses. She ran to it. “Here!” She picked up the stone and turned it over. “This marks the grave.”

Bonner took the stone and wiped the dirt off the back of it. “It says something on it. Barely.”

“May I?” Uriah examined it. “It doesn’t say anything legible.” He handed it to Justine. “It’s just a rock.”

“It’s not just a rock.” She pointed at the few letters that were visible. “See? There’s a distinct J and an r.”

The mayor looked at it. “Perhaps.”

Justine tried to keep her voice calm. At the station she’d learned that men did not react well to high emotions. “Officer Crandell? Would you dig here, please?”

He began digging, muttering under his breath about dead bodies and bones.

“Enough of the commentary, Crandell,” the chief said.

“Yes, sir.”

When he’d dug down about two feet, she felt panicked. Harland gave her questioning looks.

“Keep going,” she said. “It’s been here a long time.”

Finally, Crandell brought up a shovel full of dirt that included . . . a bone. He stepped back. “Ewww.”

Alva hid her face in Uriah’s shoulder.

They all moved forward—except the Benedicts. Justine spotted a faint hint of panic on Uriah’s face. He didn’t know that Caesar had gone back and buried Joe. He’d probably come this far quite certain there was no body to find.

Crandell continued his work, but Thomas stopped him. “Careful now. This was a man who deserves our respect and care.”

“Agreed,” the chief said. “Here, Crandell, let me.”

“Gladly.”

Chief Bonner used the shovel with delicacy. When more bones appeared, he stepped into the hole and used his hands to push the dirt away. A ribcage, arms, a skull . . . and strips of decomposed fabric.

And . . . Justine pointed. “Is that a bottle?”

Bonner retrieved the bottle from beneath a flap of a decayed leather vest. Justine wanted to tell him about the note, but knew it was essential that he find it.

“There’s something inside,” he said.

Thank You, God!

He uncorked the bottle and tried to shake the note out, then tried using a finger. “My fingers are too thick. Miss Braden?”

She took the bottle and finagled the edge of the note, then the note in its entirety. She gave it to the chief, her heart pounding.

He carefully unrolled it: “’This is Joe Trotter. Spencer Meade killed this innocent man in the Spring of 1872. May God bless Joe Trotter’s soul.’” He glanced at Justine, then Uriah. “The name Spencer Meade again.”

“May I?” Uriah read the note, then shrugged. “Mr. Meade certainly gets around.”

Her heart pounded but she remained calm. “You get around. For you were Spencer Meade.”

Uriah flipped a hand at her. “You are delusional, Miss Braden. Your wild accusations prove nothing.” He looked at the note and his face changed. Lightened. “May I see the directions that Miss Braden provided?”

The mayor handed over the page. Uriah looked at one, then the other, and as he did so Justine knew he was going to win again.

Uriah turned to the mayor. “How odd that the handwriting on Miss Braden’s directions matches the handwriting on the note, which supposedly was buried with this poor man, many years ago.”

Justine wanted to jump into the grave and claw the dirt down around herself.

The mayor studied the handwriting, his forehead furrowed. “How do you explain this, Miss Braden?”

“Let me see that.” She needed to buy time until she could think of a plausible answer. But sure enough it was clear the same hand wrote both.

She pretended otherwise. “Yes, the penmanship is similar, as it would be for anyone who learned to write cursive using the Spencer method which is taught in virtually every school in America.”

They seemed somewhat appeased.

“I have one other question before I go,” Uriah said. “How did you know this grave was even here? Or that it was Joe Trotter? You clearly weren’t quite sure of its location and the name on the rock is quite illegible.”

I traveled through time. I saw you kill him. I helped bury him.

Alva began to fan herself. “Please, Uriah. I just want to go home.” As she spoke, she gave Justine a furtive glance, as though she’d realized the truth of everything, but felt helpless and just wanted it over.

Justine felt much the same.

“I agree, wife,” Uriah said. He looked at the mayor and the chief. “We are obviously through here. Can we dispense with this nonsense once and for all?”

“I believe we can,” the chief said. “Forgive me for inconveniencing all of you on this wild goose chase.”

Uriah took Alva back to his carriage.

And took himself away from any accountability or justice.

 

**

 

Justine was done.

She went home from Joe’s grave completely spent. Her family tried to comfort her, but their words sounded hollow against the wall of her failure. She had traveled back in time and witnessed a myriad of awful deeds but had not procured one iota of justice.

All she wanted to do was sleep and forget.

She lay on her bed and faced the window. The lace curtains billowed and danced with the breeze. She stared, mesmerized, and for a few moments her thoughts settled into nothingness.

A few moments. Not nearly long enough to give her any peace.

She heard voices downstairs, but hoped they weren’t conspiring to get her to come down. She didn’t want to go downstairs. Ever.

Justine turned away from the window and drew a pillow to her chest, folding herself around it. “Father, what did I do wrong? What did I miss?”

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door.

“Go away, please,” she said.

“No.” Harland slipped inside.

She hugged the pillow harder, burying her face into its softness. “Leave me alone. I’m done in. No more.”

“One thing more.” He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair away from her face. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Not now.”

“You’ll want to see this person. I guarantee it.”

She peeked out from the pillow. “Who is it?”

“Come down and see.”

Her curiosity got the best of her and she sat up. Harland pulled her to standing, and into his arms. “Everything will be all right. I promise.”

Really?

He pointed at her collar, which was askew. She looked in the mirror, fixed it, and smoothed her hair.

“You’re beautiful.” He held out his hand. “Come on now.”

Justine had no idea who would be calling on her. She took hesitant steps, deliberately placing her foot on each stair. But as she reached the foyer and looked into the parlor, she was indeed surprised.

“Helene!” She hurried forward. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve changed my mind about testifying against Lionel. Against Uriah Benedict. About the rape.”

Justine pulled her into an embrace. “Thank you so much.”

They parted and Justine led her to a settee they shared. “What made you change your mind?”

Helene nodded toward Harland, who stood at the fireplace. “You and Dr. Jennings. And Dorthea. I honestly hadn’t thought about the crime in a long time. I’d truly moved on. But . . .”

“We brought the memories back?”

“You did.” She smoothed the drawstrings of her purse against her lap. “At first I resisted them. The idea of coming forward after all this time. But then . . .” She took a new breath. “I was teaching the children about the beginnings of our country, lauding the brave men and women who stood up to tyranny and the injustice of rule by a foreign king.”

Justine grabbed onto a key word. “Injustice.”

“Exactly. I was the victim of injustice. And because I wasn’t brave and didn’t come forward and accuse him then, many others have been hurt since.” She shook her head once. “It’s time for the truth to come out.”

“That is extremely courageous of you,” Harland said.

“And then, I saw this.” She handed Justine a clipping from the Lawrence Daily Journal that showed the etchings of the mayor and Uriah.

“I’m familiar with the article.” Justine handed it back.

”I have never met Uriah or even seen him since I arrived here. But seeing that picture in the paper—which indeed looks like an older Lionel Watkins—was the final push to make me do the right thing.”

Justine was very moved, and yet . . . “Even if you recognize him, that doesn’t prove his crime.”

“Agreed,” she said. “But this will.”

She walked to the front door and opened it. “Come in.”

A young man walked in.

As did justice.