Page 145 of The Frozen River

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I wish I could say the same about you.”

He laughs. “No doubt I’ve had more practice.”

I summon every bit of nerve that I have. Stand as straight as I’m able. “Get away from my journal. And get off my property.”

“It’s my property now. But I think we might come to an understanding.” North holds up the journal by its spine, then yanks out a fistful of pages. If one could rip my soul in half, that would be the sound. He shakes them in front of me. “I underestimated you. I never knew you kept this book. Until the first hearing.”

I need to run. Everything about North—his demeanor, his words, everything—feels dangerous. Unhinged. But I wouldn’t make it to the path before he caught me. I could scream. There’s a chance one of the children would hear me. But which one? Hannah? Dolly? Young Ephraim? I would pray for Jonathan, but he was passed out drunk, not five hours ago. Cyrus is the best option, but there’s no certainty he’ll be the one to come running.

“If not for this, Rebecca’s claims would have never made it past the first hearing.” North yanks at the book again, and my eyes sting as I watch a week’s worth of careful documentation being torn in half.

I ease back toward the door, but Cicero is on his feet now, growling deeper, edging closer, and I stop. I lift my hands, palms out to ease him back. He sits back on his haunches in the middle of the floor.

North snorts. Tears out another page.

“Why did you rape Rebecca?” I ask. Stalling is the best option I have now. Keep him talking. Give Cyrus time to get up and get to work.

“I taught her a well-deserved lesson.”

“You broke her body and destroyed her life. You forced a child upon her. What did she ever do to you?”

North looks at me, lips twitching in fury. “She brought those damn Indians into this town! Not once. But two dozen times. Do you know how long it took us to root the Wabanaki out of this place? Seven years. Seven years of war with the French and their barbaric allies. And she waltzes into the Hook with her high ideals and that idiot husband and invites them into her home. It could not be tolerated.”

“Who she associates with is none of your business.”

“Everything to do with this town is my business! I was here before any of you, and I’ll not have this place polluted by our enemies.”

I shake my head. He truly believes what he’s saying. “You raped her because of the Wabanaki? Because of a grudge held over from some old war? You are a judge. You had no right to violate your oath of office.”

“I had every right!” He thumps his chest. “I am the judge. I decide what is just.”

“You are a disgrace.”

He laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound. “Rebecca Foster is just a cunt. Same as you. Same as every woman. Just a nice wet hole to dump a bit of seed. Nothing more.”

Samuel Coleman is right. This man has lost his soul. It is the only way to justify such a belief. He was born of a woman after all. He has a wife and grown daughters. He moves through a world that is equally filled with women.

“What happened to you?” I ask. “During the war?”

“Nothing happened to me. I learned the greatest lesson of my life.”

He sounds more like a judge again, and less like a zealot. His voice has slipped into oratory, the kind he uses from the bench. There is no courtroom to lecture, however, only me, and I use this bit of space to test the strength of my wounded ankle. The jolt of pain that shoots up my shin is reminder enough that I cannot run.

“If you see something,” North says. “If you want it, then you must take it. That is how you survive not just a war, but a life. The French and Indians taught me that.”

“So you are a thief as well as a rapist?” I lift my arm and indicate the mill around us. “You take land. Women. Scalps.” He flinches at this. “And then call yourself a victim when challenged?”

It is risky, but I need more time. So I press harder. Fold my arms across my chest.

“No,” I shake my head. “You’re no hero. No founding father. You are a coward who runs in the face of justice. You are the kind of man who hides in a dead man’s house instead of facing the jail yard.”

North looks at me, eyes wide, as though astonished I could have figured this out.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You couldn’t find the eviction papers. So you threw a tantrum and torched Burgess’s homestead?”