He felt his face and ears burning, his heart hammering away in his chest.
He remembered seeing Sara come out of the barn the day Gertie disappeared. How he had gone in just after and found the fox pelt gone and the hair hanging in its place.
A terrible possibility began to dawn—something that he hadn’t allowed himself to believe in, or even to consider, until now.
Could Sara have killed Gertie?
She may even become dangerous.
He looked down at the note scribbled in childish handwriting. He tried to recall his daughter’s penmanship, but could not quite picture it. To his eye, the note Sara had produced looked more like the writing of an adult trying to write like a child.
Was this Sara’s way of confessing? Did she know there was something of hers tucked in the pocket of poor Gertie’s dress?
The room seemed to tilt slightly, and Martin grabbed onto the table to keep his balance.
He looked at Sara, his beautiful Sara, and wanted to weep and scream and beg her not to leave him, beg her to fight against the madness blossoming inside her.
He remembered handing her the Jupiter marble he’d just won from Lucius when they were children—how she’d been so beautifully radiant that he’d given it over without even thinking; he’d have given her anything then, same as he would now.
She was his great adventure; his love for her had taken him places he’d never dreamed of going.
“If you won’t help me, I’ll do it on my own,” Sara told him now, her body rigid, ready for a fight.
“All right,” he sighed, knowing he’d lost. It was over. “But we’re going to do it properly. I’m going to go into town to get Lucius. He should be here, don’t you think?”
Sara nodded. “The sheriff, too. Bring the sheriff.”
“Definitely,” he promised, standing to go get his coat and hat. “You just sit and wait. A job like this, it isn’t a thing any mother should have to do. We’ll take care of it when I get back. We’ll take care of everything.”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. It felt hot, dry, and papery, not at all like skin—not at all familiar.
Visitors from the Other Side
The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea
January 31, 1908
For the past three days, I have been a prisoner in my own home.
It was quite a scene when Martin and Lucius came back from town and found me waiting with the shovel over Gertie’s grave. The air was frigidly cold. My fingers and toes were numb from standing outside, waiting. Still, I kept firm hold of the shovel as the men climbed out of Lucius’s carriage and approached. I was standing right over the place we’d buried her, the wooden cross with Gertie’s name carved into it teasing, taunting.
“What are you doing, Sara?” Lucius asked, his voice low and soothing, as if he were talking to a small child.
