The shop windows were unshuttered. Smoke issued from the chimney, white and fluffy, a new-lit fire. For one instant, as she opened the shop door, Abigail’s heart leaped, as she recognized wily cousin Sam, and Dr. Warren, standing by the counter. But as she crossed the threshold she heard Sam saying, “Not a man in ten cares about their damned tea monopoly. Not one in fifty cares that the King can declare a monopoly, and then give his friends the only rights in the colony to sell the stuff at whatever the market will—Abigail, my dear!” He had a beautiful voice, deep and convincing, and a way of speaking that could ignite the air even if all he was doing was gleefully relating the latest fight between the household cats. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Has John returned from Salem?” asked Dr. Warren. “He said he’d—”

“There’s a dead woman on the floor of Rebecca Malvern’s kitchen,” said Abigail quietly. “Her throat was cut. Rebecca is gone, and I found this”—she held out the list—“near the body.”

Sam’s pink face turned the color of bad cream.

Revere said, “I’ll get my hat.”

Dr. Warren said, “Good God!” and dropped to his knees beside the body.

“I left her as I found her,” explained Abigail, as the young physician gently lifted back the jumble of petticoats, to reveal the extent of the slashing. Abigail had to turn her eyes away.

Sam called over his shoulder, “Who is she?” on his way into the parlor. Abigail heard him tapping and pushing at the paneling. Though she knew that time was short—anyone could come upon them and call the Watch with who knew what information still lying loose in corners—still she felt her ears get hot with anger, that he did not even pause in his stride.

Carefully, Warren turned the woman over. “Get some water, if you would, please, Mrs. Adams.”

Abigail hesitated, but the sight of those distorted features under their darkening crimson mask sent her to the half-empty jar of clean water beside the hearth. They could do nothing until they’d identified her, after all. As she returned, carefully carrying the soaked rag wrapped in a dry one, she noted the marks of her own pattens on the bricks, where she’d trodden in the blood when first she’d entered that morning. There were a man’s tracks, too, dark and nearly dried.

“What happened?” she whispered in horror, as Dr. Warren wiped the gore from the woman’s cheeks and nose. “She wasn’t—strangled . . . Why does she look like that?”