Page 154 of The Frozen River

I am cold now, and when Ephraim sees the goose flesh rise along my arms, he helps me out of the tub. Helps me dry off. Helps me into a clean dress, and onto the stool before my desk. He wraps my swollen ankle in linen bandages.

“What did you learn in Boston about Cyrus’s arrest?”

“Henry Knowland paid a man to have that warrant forged. He delivered it to the court in Vassalboro himself. Obadiah Wood had no idea Knowland was representing North. They arrested Cyrus on what they believed were orders from a higher court. Knowland has been charged with bribery and corruption. He’ll lose his license to practice law.”

“And what of the charges against Cyrus?”

“Permanently dropped.”

“Good. Because he didn’t kill Burgess,” I tell him.

“I know.”

“Nor did Isaac Foster.”

“Never thought he did.”

“And it wasn’t Joseph North either.”

This surprises him. “You’re sure?”

“Quite.”

“Then who?”

I take a deep breath. Tell him what I’ve finally figured out.

DAWIN’S WHARF THURSDAY, APRIL 22

The river is heaving. All that ice now cracked and broken into jagged blocks, a million small icebergs ready to roll downstream. We have days at most before it is moving again. It is beautiful and terrifying, this opening of the river, and on more than one occasion, the ice has heaped its fury along the riverbanks, piling up and destroying everything in its path. It’s why there are no homes directly beside the river. They are all built on the other side of Water Street, safely away from the threat of flood and wreckage. The wharves, however, are in danger, and Sam Dawin stands at the end of his, checking the beams for cracks and decay.

“Will it be today?” I ask, and when he turns, startled, I point at the river. “Or tomorrow?”

He shrugs. “It will be a mess, either way. I’ll likely have a good bit of rebuilding to do.”

Sam has built his wharf a bit farther into the river than most. Better for fishing and for water traffic. But it’s a gamble when the thaw comes. He could end up rebuilding the entire thing.

“Have you come to check on May again?” he asks.

“No. This time I came to speak with you.”

“Oh? About what?”

I fold my hands together and rest them in front of me. “The rope.”

“What rope?”

“The one you used to hang Joshua Burgess.” I catch his gaze and do not let go. I watch his brow furrow in confusion then his eyes widen in shock. “The same rope you threw to Jonathan that night so he could pull you out of the river. Where is it?”

Sam shakes his head. But it’s too quick. Too frantic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I would have believed that, without question, last week before I saw the lace.” When Sam doesn’t answer I take a step forward and point. “In your pocket.”

He goes perfectly still. Says nothing.

“It reminded me of what Rebecca Foster told me, how Joshua Burgess ripped a strip of lace from the hem of her shift before he raped her. That he tied his hair back with it.”

Sam jerks away with revulsion, his face contorting in horror. “It isn’t… you can’t think that I—”