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   You live at Arnott’s Ridge?”

Verna had held her hair back with a bobby pin and now fiddled with it, as if it were out of place. Her voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Yes, sir. With my sister. And before that our father.”

“Can you speak up, please?” said the judge.

The lawyer continued. “And it’s just the three of you?”

She held on to the lip of the witness box and gazed around her, as if she had only just noticed how many people were in the room. Her voice faltered for a moment.

“Miss McCullough?”

“Uh . . . Yes. Our mama went when I was eight and it’s been us three since then.”

“Your mama died?”

“I don’t know, sir. We woke up one morning and my daddy said she was gone. And that was it.”

“I see. So you are unsure as to her fate?”

“Oh, I believe her to be dead. Because she always said my daddy would kill her one day.”

“Objection!” said the state prosecutor.

“Strike that from the record, please. We will leave it on file that Miss McCullough’s mother’s whereabouts are unknown.”

“Thank you, Miss McCullough. And when did you last see your father?”

“That would be five days before Christmas.”

“And have you seen him since?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you look for him?”

“No, sir.”

“You . . . weren’t troubled? When he didn’t come home for Christmas?”

“It was not . . . unusual behavior for our daddy. I think it may be no secret that he liked a drink. I believe he is—was—known to the sheriff.” The sheriff nodded, almost reluctantly.

“Sir, would it be possible for me to sit down? I’m feeling a little faint.”

The judge motioned to the clerk to bring her a chair and the court waited while it was positioned and she was able to sit. Someone brought her a glass of water. Her face was only just visible above the witness box and most in the public gallery leaned forward to try to see her better.

“So when he didn’t come home on the . . . twentieth of December, Miss McCullough, you didn’t see anything particularly untoward in that behavior?”

“No, sir.”

“And when he left, did he tell you where he was going? To a bar?”

For the first time, Verna hesitated a good while before she spoke. She glanced at Margery, who was looking at the floor.

“No, sir. He said . . .” She swallowed, and then turned toward the judge. “He said he was going to return his library book.”

There was an outburst from the public gallery, a sound that might have been shock or a burst of laughter, or a mixture of both; it was hard to tell. Margery, in the dock, lifted her head for the first time. Alice looked down to find that Izzy was gripping her hand, her knuckles white.

The defense lawyer turned to face the jury. “Can I check that I heard that correctly, Miss McCullough? You said your father set out to return a library book?”

“Yes, sir. He had recently been receiving books from the WPA Packhorse Library and he believed it was a great thing. He had just read a fine book and said it was his civic duty to return it as soon as possible so that some other person could have the benefit of reading it.”

The heads of Mr. Howard, the state prosecutor and his second were pressed together in urgent conversation. He raised his hand but the judge dismissed him with a wave. “Go on, Miss McCullough.”

“Me and my sister, well, we did warn him in the strongest terms not to set out because the conditions were bad, what with the snow and ice and all, and that he might slip and fall, but he had taken a fair bit to drink and he would not be told. He was insistent that he didn’t want to be late back with his library book.”

Her gaze flickered around the courtroom as she spoke, her voice now level and certain.

“So Mr. McCullough set out by himself, on foot, into the snow.”

“He did, sir. Taking the library book.”

“To walk to Baileyville.”

“Yes, sir. We warned him it was a foolish enterprise.”

“And you never saw or heard from him again?”

“No, sir.”

“And . . . you didn’t think to look for him?”

“Me and my sister, we don’t leave our home, sir. After our mama went our daddy never liked for us to come to town, and we didn’t like to disobey him, what with his temper and all. We went around the yard before nightfall and shouted for him, just in case he had taken a fall, but most times he would just come back when it pleased him.”

“So you just waited for him to return.”

“Yes, sir. He had threatened to leave us before now, so I guess when he didn’t return some part of us thought maybe he had finally done so. And then back in April the sheriff came up to tell us he was . . . dead.”

“And . . . Miss McCullough. May I ask one more question? You have been most courageous making this trip down the mountain and completing this difficult testimony, and I am much obliged to you. One final question: do you remember what book it was that your father enjoyed so much, and felt such an obligation to return?”

“Why, yes, I do, sir. Most clearly.”

And here Verna McCullough turned her pale blue eyes on those of Margery O’Hare, and to those nearest it was possible that the faintest smile played around her lips. “It was a book by the name of Little Women.”

The court exploded into a wall of noise, so that the judge was forced to bang his gavel six, eight times before enough people noticed—or could hear enough—to quiet it. There was laughter, disbelief, and shouted fury from different parts of the court, and the judge, his brows an overhanging ledge, grew puce with anger.

“Silence! I will not have this court held in disrespect, do you hear me? The next person to make a sound will be in contempt of court! Silence in the court!”

The room quieted. The judge waited a moment to be sure that everyone had got the message.

“Now, Counsels, will you approach the bench?”

There was some muttered conversation, this time inaudible in the court, under which a low hum of whispers had begun to escalate dangerously. Across the courtroom, Mr. Van Cleve looked like he was about to combust. Alice saw him get up once, twice, but the sheriff turned and physically forced him to sit down. She could see Van Cleve pointing, his mouth working, as if he couldn’t believe he, too, didn’t have the right to go up and debate with the judge. Margery sat very still, disbelieving.