Riley smiled. “I’ve been a volunteer here forever. Mary Ann roped me into it years ago when I was practically living here doing research on my own family. When I was in college, I did this project on Vermont in the Civil War and I found out some of my relatives had fought, not just for the Union army, but for the Confederates, too. I don’t know, I guess it made me feel like I was part of something so much bigger, you know? I feel like studying the past helps me to frame the present. I guess I’ve always been a bit of a history geek—I love all the old stories, the way what came before shapes who we are now. Sometimes I get all caught up in my own little bullshit life dramas, like trouble with boyfriends or money, and then I think about those relatives, cousins fighting each other in the Civil War, or people who went through the Great Depression or the Holocaust, and it just puts things in perspective.” Riley’s eyes blazed and Helen recognized a kindred spirit.

“Absolutely,” Helen said.

“I mean, just look at Hattie’s life—everything that happened to her, the bullshit she must have had to endure. Imagine walking through town, being called a witch, the hatred hurled at her, building day after day, year after year, until they eventually killed her, then weighed her down and sank her in the bog. All because she was different. Because she was special.”

Helen thought of the looks and sneers she got in town, the whispering behind her back. Her, the outsider, the one who’d stirred up Hattie’s spirit.

Riley took a few seconds to compose herself, then looked back down at the boxes. “Okay, moving forward. We’ve got no death records. Let me show you what we do have.”

Hattie’s father’s name, James Breckenridge, was on an old deed for the land around the bog.

“And here’s her father’s death certificate,” she said, pulling out a copy. “He died back in 1899. Struck by lightning, just days after Hattie predicted it.”