“May I present: Miss Hattie Breckenridge,” Riley said, slowly turning the painting so that Helen was face-to-face with the subject.

Helen’s eyes locked on the framed portrait. Hattie stood in a bloodred dress and had her long raven-black hair held back with combs. Her lips were painted the color of the dress. Her eyes sparkled, teased, taunted, and seemed to glisten, to move, watching Helen.

Helen felt the air pulled out of her lungs, as if Hattie were sucking it in, inhaling the very life out of her.

I know you, the eyes said. And you think you know me.

Helen studied the neat signature in the bottom right corner; it was only two initials: W.T.

“Who’s the artist?” Helen asked.

“If only we knew,” Riley said. “We’ve researched, asked folks who are experts on artists in the area during that time period, but no one can tell us anything.”

“Lost to history,” Helen said.

She thought about all that was lost, all that she would not and could not ever know about Hattie Breckenridge. But she knew there were still some things to find. Like living relatives. The idea of finding an actual descendant of Hattie’s sent an electric charge through Helen. Would they look like Hattie? Would they know any of her story, passed down through generations? Maybe they’d have something more: photos, letters, things that might have belonged to Hattie herself. What might happen if Helen found a relative, invited them to her house? Wouldn’t Hattie be pleased? So pleased she’d show herself? Was this where Hattie had been leading her—to learn her whole story, not just the bits and pieces she could glean from her life, but the story of Hattie’s legacy, of what came after?

She thought of the ways her father had shaped her, the things he’d taught her and stories he’d told her that she carried still: her house building, the tales he told about his own boyhood, about relatives long gone. What might Hattie have passed on to her descendants? What stories might they still be able to tell?

“Okay,” Helen said, looking down at her notebook. “Let’s see if we can figure out what happened to Jane’s children, Ann and Mark.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Riley said, carefully setting the painting down on the table, leaned against the wall. Then she sat at the computer on a desk in the corner, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“You and Nate get the plumbing done?” Riley asked.

“Yeah. We started on the wiring today actually. Got a lot of the boxes in place. Drilled holes in the framing and started running cable.”

“I’m booked up tomorrow, but I can come out and give you guys a hand for a bit the day after,” Riley offered.

“That would be great,” Helen said.

Helen turned back toward the painting.