“Husband? Me? That’s a laugh.” And she does laugh, a short dry bark. But she shifts in her seat.
“Not a laugh. A fact. Your husband was murdered in Waterloo.”
“Clearly, we’re not in Waterloo anymore, are we? They have buildings. And electric lights. And a police force that isn’t made up of twelve-year-olds. Is that a mustache on your face or a pigeon feather?”
He opens his mouth to strike back and then shuts it again. He shouldn’t be in this situation, but he is, and he needs to make the most of it. Whether he finds her company unpleasant doesn’t matter. Whether she is a murderess is the only question. Once he has his answer, the right course will be clear.
“I’ll thank you not to insult me, ma’am,” he says and moves his hand a few inches, resting it on the butt of his gun.
Her eyes flick down and then up again, and he knows she gets his meaning.
“Please,” she says, in a softer voice. “No more ‘ma’am.’ Call me Arden.”
“Due respect again, m—” He swallows the end of the word. “Due respect, I’m certain that’s not your real name.”
“It’s the only name that matters, isn’t it? The one on the posters. The Amazing Arden, the Alluring Arden, the All-Powerful Arden. Depending on the poster, depending on the town. And what town is this?”
“It’s called Janesville,” he says.
“Not very big, is it?”
“Big enough.”
She says nothing for a few moments, and then her bravado seems to crumble all at once. “This is ludicrous,” she says, sounding half strangled. “I don’t—I don’t even know—if it’s—I didn’t kill anyone, officer.”
He expects to find her looking up at his face, watching him, reading him. But she is only staring down at her boots.
“Ma’am?” says Officer Holt.
When she meets his eyes, he sees the wetness on her cheeks. She’s crying. Now that she’s still and silent and facing him, she doesn’t look like a powerful enchantress. She looks like an exhausted young woman in the grip of enormous sadness, helpless beyond words. It almost melts his heart. Almost.
He pulls the handkerchief from his pocket but immediately sees his mistake. He can’t offer it to her. With five pairs of handcuffs holding her wrists fast to the chair, she doesn’t have a hand free to take it.
“Just dab at my eyes, please,” she says and raises her face toward him. “The salt stings.”
He can’t help but notice, while wiping the tears from her cheeks, that her skin is smooth and lovely. There’s something childlike about her, though she’s certainly not a child. If he had to guess, he’d put her about halfway between twenty and thirty. A little older than he is, but not by much.
“Thank you. Now, due respect, Officer Holt,” she says, sounding resigned. “Let me say this again. I am not an escape artist. I am an illusionist. I could conjure a dove from nothingness if you like. Or I could pour a glass of milk into a hat, which will later prove to be empty. That’s my business.”
“You know your business. I know mine.”
Her soft voice turning more insistent, she says, “Look, you’re a lawman. I understand. You think you need to do this. But you don’t. We can end this now. Let me go.”
“And why would I?”
“If you don’t, you’re killing me. Is that what you want? To be my executioner?” She stares up at him fiercely, and he wants to feel superior, looking down on her, but he doesn’t. It’s the eyes. The half-brown eye, to be specific. As if she can see him on the outside and the inside at the same time. He doesn’t want to be seen.
“It’s not up to me. You’ll get a trial.”
“The supposed witches of Salem got trials,” she says with obvious bitterness, “for all the good it did them.”
He unfolds and refolds his damp, streaked handkerchief. “I can promise you a fair shake.”
“Can you? Some think a trial with a judge and jury is justice, sure. Other people have a different idea of it. People who’d lock me up with vagrants and violators and let things take their natural course.”
He can hear the edge of desperation in her voice now but can’t tell whether she’s put it there on purpose. He answers firmly. “Ma’am, I’m sorry; I have no choice.”
“We always have a choice. Sometimes it’s just the will we lack. And again with ‘ma’am’? You won’t call me Arden?”
“No.” He folds his arms and avoids her gaze. He stares out the room’s only window, as if she’s not even interesting enough to look at, which of course she is. All else aside, she’s a beautiful woman. But there is too much else to put aside.
Beyond the window, it is pitch-black. Darker than it should be. The gas lamp must have gone out, and now nothing is visible. No grass, no streets, no trees, no town. Just black. They call this the dead of night for a reason.
“Officer,” she says at last, “could you at least do one small thing for me? Could you unbutton my collar? I—it’s a little difficult to breathe.”
It could be a trick, of course, but he wants her to trust him. So he reaches out for the buttons at her throat, taking care not to look her in the eye and keeping the hip with the gun on it on her far side, well out of reach.
There are three tiny buttons on the high lace collar of her gown, and once all three are open, he can see the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat. He can also see a deep bruise across the front of her neck, a spreading purple mess roughly an inch high and several inches across. He spreads the lace of the collar open with his fingers to get a closer look. The bruise is a single thick line running side to side, as if someone had tried to behead her with something blunt. It is more pink than blue, with no yellow or green at the edges.
“Is this fresh?” he says. “It looks fresh.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He takes out the handkerchief to dab lightly at her tears, which have started again.
“It’s entirely your choice, officer,” she says. “To turn me in or let me go.”
She’s right, of course. He has to make the decision. Capturing a notorious murderess would change everything for him, but at the same time, what if she’s innocent? The truth of what she’s saying can’t be denied. The law is perfect. The men in charge of executing it are not.
“Tell me then,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”
She does something he has not yet seen her do. Not in the posters. Not onstage. And certainly not since he recognized and apprehended her in that restaurant.
She smiles.
The Amazing Arden looks at him out of her half-brown eye, tilts her head, and asks, “Where does a person’s story begin?”