Page 93 of The Witch

And the farther we venture from Town Square, the stronger my dread grows. I fear that I have bartered my end at the gallows for a fate much worse at the cruel hands of Jonas Reeve.

I must flee from Jonas. At the first chance I get, I will slip away from him. I do not know where I will go, but I am better off alone than I am in the company of a man so clearly possessed by the devil. I must escape him if I have any hope of redeeming my soul.

We travel on foot as fast as we can. Jonas may be better at navigating than I am, but I recognize that with each footfall, we are growing closer to Pemberton. Archie will be home by now, likely reading by candlelight or preparing for slumber.

And Molly. She will be there too.

Is Archie thinking of me? Does he feel regret that he did not speak up in my defense? Or is he simply relieved to be rid of me? After all, I have proven myself to be barren. I cannot provide the child that he longs for.

He will be better off without me. The fire will burn that jailhouse to ashes, and he will believe me to be dead. He will be free to wed Molly or whomever he chooses, and he will enjoy a happy life with his new bride.

I am not entirely sure how long we have been journeying when I stumble on a branch. I try to catch my balance, but I am so weak from hunger and exhaustion that I fall to my knees, scraping my hands against the ground. Jonas turns around to come to my aid, although I wish he would forget me and continue forward on his own.

“Caroline.” His face creases with concern, the bruise on his cheekbone dark even in the moonlight. “Are you hurt?”

“I need a rest,” I say, which is the truth. I sit down on an overturned log. “Pray, journey on without me. I do not wish to hold you back.”

But to my dismay, Jonas does not continue on ahead. Instead, he sits down beside me on the log.

“We can take a rest,” he says. “I will wait.”

I rub my hands against my knees, which are sore from the tumble. “I prefer that you do not wait.”

He does not answer this right away. He simply looks up at the moon, high and bright in the star-speckled sky. He is considering his options. Should he wait for me while I rest? Should he continue on alone? Or should he wrap his fingers around my throat and end it right now? I should be more frightened, but after all I have endured, I wish he would simply make up his mind and get it over with, whatever he decides.

“I did not kill Leonora,” he finally says.

I turn my eyes upon him, but now he is looking down at his hands. That sorrowful expression is back on his face.

“You did not kill Leonora,” I repeat.

“Nay,” he confirms. “I…I loved her.”

What?

“I met her when I was passing through town, picking up extra work,” he explains. “I had plans to join my cousin in New York—he had started a newspaper. But when I met Leonora, my plans changed.” His eyes grow glassy. “I asked her to marry me, and she agreed. But we knew her parents would not approve of me or allow her to travel to New York, so we were waiting to tell them until I could find respectable work in town. Until I could prove I was able to provide for her.”

Does he truly expect me to believe this? I am not stupid. I am aware of the circumstances of his capture. “They found you with her after she was dead.”

“Yes.” His voice cracks on the word. “When she disappeared, I went searching for her. I knew she liked to sit by that pond because she found it peaceful. So I looked for her there, and I found her… But it was too late.” He blinks quickly, and his eyes are moist. “I knew if I told the sheriff, they would blame me. I knew I should flee, but I could not bear to leave her. So I stayed with her just a bit longer, and…I stayed too long…”

And now a tear rolls down his cheek. A tear for the girl who he loved, who he expected to be his wife, who is now buried in the ground.

Or…

Is this another performance? Such as the one he gave for Deputy Strickland? I believed with absolute certainty that he was having a fit in that jailhouse. I cannot trust a word that passes through this man’s lips.

“You are a killer,” I say. “You set the jailhouse ablaze and burned the deputy alive. You cannot deny this, for I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Aye.” He hangs his head. “Verily, ’tis so. But I swear to you, Caroline, that I had never wrought ill against another soul before that very instant. I only did what I needed to free us from there.”

I laugh mirthlessly. “You shed no tears for Deputy Strickland.”

“Aye,” he says again. His gaze is still downcast, directed at his large hands with their thick calluses that have squeezed the life out of countless maidens—both the ones from our town and who knows how many others elsewhere. “He deserved to die.”

“That is a terrible thing to say! The words of the devil!”

“It is the truth.” He rubs one thumb against his rough palm. “He would have had you put to death, even though you were innocent and he knew it. I did not take pleasure in what I did to him, but I did not shed any tears either.”