I took a step back from him but he closed the gap.

“Have you written anything about us or your … situation?”

My silence told him all.

“You will bring me that journal.”

“No.”

He clenched his teeth. “I said, you will bring me that journal and I will destroy it—”

“No,” I spat.

“Do you know what I’ll do to you if—?”

“What? You’ll kill me? You really think you’ll be able to get away with murder twice? People know where I am, right now, and if I don’t return, they’ll come looking for me,” I bluffed.

“Maybe I won’t kill you here and now.”

“Then I guess the best thing for me to do is show everyone the journal, right away.” Then, I remembered. The thought struck me like a thunderbolt. “In fact, I don’t have to … Somebody already knows.”

“You’re lying …” he said, but he knew I wasn’t.

I shook my head.

“Who?” he asked.

“Patricia Fleming.”

The panic in his voice grew. “No …”

“She knows. There’s nothing you can do. You know what she’s like. You killed your daughter and everyone will know.”

In a blind fury, he lashed out and gripped my neck. His eyes bulged as he began to crush my throat. I struggled, clawing at his wrists, but he was too strong. He was about to choke the life out of me. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the penknife, and swung at his face. The blade sank into his cheek, under his beard. He released me, staggered backwards, reached up, and pulled the knife out. Blood poured onto his shirt. He dropped the knife onto the road and pressed his hand over the wound.

I took the opportunity and picked up the bicycle.

He was staring at me in horror as I rode away as fast as I could from the Nightingale House.

I went straight home.

Once inside my room, I changed my shirt. I found one that closely resembled it, and hoped Father wouldn’t notice. I took the rest of the money Mr. Carrington had told me to keep from his cash purchases, which I would give to Father and tell him the account was paid. There was more than enough.

When I arrived at the pharmacy, Father was in the process of making and placing signs, advertising the new prices. Things that had been a dime were now a nickel, and items that were a nickel were now a penny. Some customers had even found their way into the store.

“There you are,” he said, and gestured to the shoppers. “Busiest it’s ever been.”

I went behind the counter and handed him the money.

“Mr. Carrington’s account is closed.”

A wave of relief swept over him. Instead of depositing it in the register, Father stuffed the money into his pocket.

“Now, help me with these signs. I think my little plan is going to work.”