It had been a decade since I’d last done this sort of digging, and I couldn’t help the sudden rush of adrenaline in my chest. To think that Gaynor spent day after day in the British Library with full access to archives like this left me nearly writhing in envy.

As the image sharpened, my screen flashed with an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number, but my caller ID said the call originated from Minneapolis. I frowned, trying to remember if I knew anyone from Minnesota. I shook my head; must be a telemarketer. I declined the call, settled deeper into the pillow and began to read the sample pages of the document.

The first several pages were irrelevant: names of hospital administrators, a lease document and a signed copy of a will—perhaps signed while the patient was on their deathbed. But on the fourth page, something caught my eye: the word bear.

It was a digitized image of a short, handwritten note, the writing jagged and faded in several places:

22 October 1816

To men, a maze. I could have show’d them all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley.

That a killer need not lift her long, delicate hand. She need not touch him as he dies.

There are other, wiser ways: vials and victuals.

The apothecary was a friend to all of us women, the brewer of our secret: the men are dead because of us.

Only, it did not happen as I intend’d.

It was not her fault, the apothecary. It was not even mine.

I lay blame unto my husband, and his thirst for that which was not meant for him.

The note was unsigned. My hands began to shake; the words bear and vial were present, meaning this was definitely the page that hit my search keywords. And the author of this note, whoever she was, clearly meant to share a heavy secret while she was indisposed at the hospital. Could this have been a deathbed confession of some kind?

And what of the line all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley? The author of the note alluded to a maze, implying she knew the way through. And if there was a maze, it seemed only logical that something valuable—or secretive—would be at the end of it.

I chewed at a fingernail, at a complete loss over the meaning of this strange wording.

But it was something else that struck me the most: mention of the apothecary. The author of the note said the apothecary was a “friend” and a “brewer” of secrets. If the secret was that men were dead—and clearly not by accident—it seemed the apothecary was the common thread among their deaths. Like a serial killer. A chill ran through me as I pulled the sheets closer.