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Chapters (206)
  1. Praise for Maplecroft
  2. Title page
  3. Copyright page
  4. Contents
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
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  12. A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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  20. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  21. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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  31. Nance O’Neil
  32. THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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  37. AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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  43. THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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  46. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  53. BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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  55. CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
  56. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  57. •   •   •
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  62. HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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  67. A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
  68. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  69. •   •   •
  70. •   •   •
  71. Nance O’Neil
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  84. Emma L. Borden
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  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  93. RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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  101. Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
  102. Emma L. Borden
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  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
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  115. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  119. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  130. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  131. Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
  138. •   •   •
  139. Emma L. Borden
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  150. Emma L. Borden
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  153. FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
  154. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  165. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  176. Emma L. Borden
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  186. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  197. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  205. Inspector Simon Wolf
  206. •   •   •

I wouldn’t entertain the darker possibility at the time, even when others were all too happy to do so. I’m not sure why. I can’t say why I defended her so; or, if I must choose my reason, then I’d say it was because of Abigail—that awful night before she was killed. Something was wrong. Something was worse than wrong, and at the bottom of my heart I felt that their murder might have been some kind of self-defense, instead.

Over and over, while I was on the stand, I thought of Abigail Borden and her cold, damp hands pounding upon my door. I remembered my terror, and then my revulsion as I recognized her, and saw how terribly she’d changed.

Worse than wrong. Yes. I suppose that’s the crux of it.

I have been afraid all this time that Lizzie performed some act of self-defense that could never be defended in court—an act that I would have pardoned and justified, given how readily I’d wondered where my pistols had gone when I saw that slack, imbecile shape rocking back and forth on my stoop.

But that can’t have been all of it. Andrew was murdered in his sleep. Abigail was taken by surprise, from behind. Can any such attack ever be construed as self-defense?

And so I twist myself around and around again, never certain if I made the right decision, but quite certain that I couldn’t have made another one. Not if I wanted to live with myself.

Now, if I wish to speak of the matter to Lizzie, I may threaten this weird balance between us. Our polite deferral of the topic, and a mutually agreed-upon (yet never openly discussed) pact to avoid it. My knowledge of the night before they died. Her knowledge of everything that came before and after.

What if she were to make some slip, drop a few stray words by accident—words that incriminated her? What if I am forced to confront the possibility that I was wrong to stand by her side? Would I be compelled to report the matter? Would it mean anything if I did? I don’t believe she could be tried again, but public opinion has long since had its way with her.

It might well be that I fret for nothing but exposed feelings, and unpleasant truths that reveal nothing and mean even less, given that the time for consequences has passed.

•   •   •

So it seems my only excuse for avoiding Miss Borden the younger . . . is a squeamishness on my part. For all I know, she has no such squeamishness; for all I know, she has no polite agreement with me—a gentleperson’s imaginary agreement, assumed in order to avoid an unseemly topic. This might be entirely one-sided, and it might be entirely in my head.

I believe I’ll have a word with her after all, at Emma’s next appointment.