“What for? You’re not going anywhere. Well, except to kill your parents again.”

Her cheek twitched, eyes filling with genuine guilt and remorse, the kind Amanda Sullivan couldn’t imagine, much less feel.

“So this is your punishment, then,” I said, my voice softer.

“Punishment?” A confused glance my way. “This is what I deserve.”

“A hell of her own making,” Kristof murmured.

I looked up at him.

“I think this is her doing,” he said. “She’s created her own hell, and trapped herself in it. No need for anyone to punish her. She does it herself.”

Lizzie had returned to her needlepoint, face expressionless. As much as I wanted to jump right in with direct questions, I knew I had to be careful. The Fates must have considered Lizzie Borden a credible witness, but that didn’t mean she might not try to trick me, or tell me what I wanted to hear.

“Before you…did it,” I said. “Did anything happen? Anything unusual. Maybe you…heard something.”

“The voice, yes. I heard it.”

“Telling you to kill them.”

She kept her gaze down. “She didn’t tell me to do anything.”

“Encouraged you,” I said, remembering Amanda Sullivan’s confession.

“Yes, she did embolden me. But I wielded the hatchet. These fingers—”

She clenched her hands, the needle stabbing into her palm. When she opened her fists, a single drop of blood fell on her needlework. She stared at it, transfixed, as it disappeared into the fabric.

“The blame is mine,” she said. “I’d thought of it, dreamed about it—killing them. No beau was ever good enough for my father. Those men weren’t perfect. I know that. But they would have been kind to me, taken me out of this place. Except he wouldn’t let me leave. And her—” She spit the word. “Always conniving. First she gave her half-sister the house that was supposed to be ours, Emma’s and mine—”

She stopped, head dropping again.

“No excuses. It cannot be excused.”

“Maybe, but I can see how—”

“No!” Her gaze shot to mine, filled with a vehemence approaching fanatical. “There is no excuse and no justification. Honor thy father and thy mother. Honor thy father and thy mother.” She repeated the phrase, voice dropping to a mumble.

“Excuse me,” she said, laying her needlework aside.

She headed into the foyer and up the stairs. I tried not to think about what was happening up there, but when I heard Abby’s body hit the floor, I couldn’t suppress a wince.

A few moments later, the scene with the locked front door replayed itself.

Lizzie and Andrew came into the parlor. Andrew took over the sofa, sprawling out and closing his eyes. Lizzie went into the dining room and set up an ironing board. The maid, Bridget, came in to begin cleaning.

“Are you going out today?” Lizzie asked her.

“I don’t know. I’m not feeling very well.”