I took the bicycle all the way home. I let myself into the house and went straight to my room. As I passed Father’s room, I heard him coughing and retching on the other side of the door. Once I was in my room, I changed my clothes and sat in front of the mirror. There were scratches on my hands, knees, and shoulders. The spot on my head where I had hit the stone path was swollen and throbbed painfully, but it was hidden by my hair. Out of habit, I washed up for bed. The whole thing is a nightmare.

I tried, but I can’t sleep.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what happened. I thought going to him was the only way out of this.

Now, it’s worse.

So much worse.

September 29th, 1900

HE DID IT!

He did it! I know he did. I don’t care what anyone says!

Forgive me. I need to start from the beginning.

I told Father yesterday that I still wasn’t feeling well and stayed in bed all day. I figured it would give me time to think of how to tell him of my situation while also allowing my scrapes and bruises a little time to heal.

This morning, before he left for the pharmacy, he stopped by my room and asked if I was feeling better. I told him yes and that I would be into the pharmacy later. I couldn’t hide in my room forever. I heard him leave through the front door, and I spent the next few hours trying to decide how to tell Father everything that had happened.

I waited until I knew Patricia Fleming and her little herd would have completed their walk and set out for the main square. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, that it wasn’t until I was almost at the pharmacy that I realized nearly everyone in the street was reading a newspaper. I went inside and Father was reading a newspaper, as well.

“Have you seen this?” he said, pointing to an article. “The Carringtons’ daughter is missing.”

I grabbed the paper and started reading. The more I read, the more my horror grew. The article stated that she had disappeared last night from the station in Dover where she, Mr. Carrington, and Mr. Whitlock were waiting on the train to Boston.

Father asked me if I had ever met his daughter when I made the deliveries to the Nightingale House.

I felt like I was going to be sick. Father helped me to a chair and asked if I was all right. I told him that I was fine and that it was the shock of reading the article, but that I probably should go home. He agreed.