Carrington was the killer he’d so briefly read about then. Or he was at least one of them. Malachi was silent as the widow explained, offering more detail to a story he had heard of only in passing, and waited patiently each time she paused.

Somewhere along the way he scooted closer, seated at the very edge of his own rock. A part of him wished to comfort her. The better part of him, the one that understood what it was like to have one’s life dictated by a monster, and to be given no pardon from family. He didn’t understand the specifics of how she felt – he couldn’t. Carrying the children of said monster was something he would never have to face.

There was another part of him – quiet as a whisper, so quickly dismissed – that wanted to tell her, I can fix this. An odd itch that plagued his fingertips and kept replaying, over and over, that hollow look in Sonia’s eyes when she had walked out of the water.

“Do you have to?” was his first question, low voice riddled with a strange, almost imperceptible edge. When he continued, it was gone.

“Raise them in a brothel, I mean. You said that his family will not help you, but is there no money from your late husband?”