I decided to go to the Nightingale House as early as possible to have it over and done with. I accompanied Father to the pharmacy and went back through the storeroom towards the back door and the bicycle waiting in the alley. As I passed Father’s desk, I stopped. I can’t explain why, but I grabbed the penknife he uses to open letters off the desktop and tucked it into my pocket. I went out to the alley and grabbed the bicycle.

It had rained the night before. The air was cold and the roads were wet, which slowed my progress. The closer I got, the more I was filled with dread.

As the Nightingale House came into view, I nearly fell from the bicycle. He was waiting on the front porch. I corrected my balance and continued on, finally reaching the stone path, but stayed on the road. He stepped off the porch, began walking down the path, and stopped in front of me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

I could no longer stand it. “What did you do to her?” I asked.

He glared at me and said, “You and I never had a relationship of any sort. You delivered the items from the pharmacy to my house. That was all.”

“I’m pregnant with your child.”

“Impossible. You must have been with some boy and are insinuating it’s mine in order to extract some sort of blackmail from me.”

The fact that this supposed pillar of the community wouldn’t take responsibility for what he had done, that this man who I thought I was in love with was trying to deny the truth set my stomach on fire.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I was here. I heard her scream!”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder. “Mr. Whitlock is inside.”

“Where is she?!”

He drew himself closer and loomed over me. “Somewhere she’ll never be found. Would you care to join her?”

I am not exaggerating. Those were his words. The man just admitted murder and threatened me with the same.

“She would have told my wife and that would have ruined me.”

“Your wife must suspect that you’re lying.”

“My wife suspects I’m an unfaithful husband, but I doubt she believes I’m capable of what you’re accusing me of.”

“The police—”

“Also have no proof, which is why you’re going to tell me, right now: have you told any of your friends about us?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Your father?”

“No.”

“You haven’t written any letters mentioning us?”

“No.”

“You haven’t written—”

His face went white.

“That journal …” he breathed.

“What?”

“That journal my insipid wife gave you at the birthday party. The first time I came into your shop, you told me you were writing in it.”