Kate ran over to the window and tried to force it open. It was stuck tight. Outside the cabin, the shadows of the trees were creeping across the ground. Soon it’d be nightfall, and the last thing she wanted was to spend the night locked in this old cabin. She placed the book on the floor and pushed at the window frame with both hands. It still wouldn’t move. If I could just pry it open. She remembered the box of cutlery.
She went to the loft, then returned with a couple of the old knives. Taking one, she carefully jammed its blade between the sill and the frame and ran it along the width of the window, cutting through the layers of paint. She repeated the procedure on each side and along the top. Placing both hands at the top of the frame, she pushed again.
The window moved a centimeter. She repeated the procedure again. The window frame raised a little more. She scraped again and again as the shadows grew longer and the room colder. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and a thin sheen of sweat gathered on her top lip. She felt a rising sense of panic and urgency.
She gave the window another try, and if it didn’t work this time, she’d break the glass. She had to get out of the cabin. Finally, the window slid far enough for her to wedge her body through and to toss a leg over the sill. Then she lost her balance and tumbled to the ground, landing flat on her back. Winded, she stared up at the sky and let relief flow through her. She was free.
The book. After scrambling to her feet, she went to the door. The latch had fallen back into place, but the padlock still lay on the ground where she’d left it. She pulled hard, expecting it to be stuck, then stumbled backward as the door opened easily. Perplexed, she propped it open with a nearby rock and went to retrieve the book.
Kate returned to the house and heard Trudy’s TV playing loudly as she went up to her room, where she set the book down. She showered quickly, then dressed in a pair of sweats and sat cross-legged on the bed, skimming the book’s pages one by one.
It was a series of essays, specifically about family life and the role of women. Based on the way the subject matter was discussed, Kate deduced that the book had to have been written before women had the right to vote.
As she read, she thought of the things she had always taken for granted. She could vote, run for a political office, receive an education, hold a job outside of the home. She had choices that the women of the early 1900s were never given. This was the world Hannah had lived in?
She closed the book and stared at it thoughtfully. If this book was published in the early 1900s, as she suspected, the author must have caused quite a stir. Running her hands over the front of the book, Kate began thinking—whichever Krause had acquired this hadn’t been a fan, as witnessed by the gouged cover and the torn-out pages. Without a publication date or a title, she had no way of discovering who had been the author, and she knew nothing of twentieth-century women’s literature.
But Rose did.
After shoving her feet into a pair of tennis shoes, she grabbed the book and headed out of the house.
Rose answered her door with a look of surprise. “You’re supposed to be home resting,” she said as she motioned Kate into the house.
“I know, and if it’s too late to talk, I can come back tomorrow,” Kate answered in a rush.
“It’s fine.” She eyed the book in Kate’s hand. “What have you been up to?” she asked with a note of suspicion in her voice.
“I went through the attic and the old cabin,” Kate said, following Rose into the kitchen.
Rose shot a look over her shoulder. “You’re not still focused on Hannah, are you?”
Kate pulled out a chair and plopped down at the table, placing the book in front of her. “Can’t you see the similarities?” she asked. “Both men were stabbed and their wives were arrested.”
“Not yet,” Rose pointed out. “No charges have been brought against you.”
“No, but that’s where it’s headed as soon as the tests come back.” She tapped the book nervously. “And there’s nothing I can do about it. Either they’re going to arrest me or not. But I can try and figure out what happened one hundred and twenty-two years ago.”
“Kate,” Rose began in an exasperated voice, “you can’t solve a murder that happened over a century ago.”
“Maybe not solve, but I can find some answers.” She leaned forward. “You were close to your great-grandfather. Who did he think killed Jacob?”
Rose rolled her eyes, but answered. “He didn’t speak of it often, but as I recall I overheard him tell Essie that he suspected one of Jacob’s neighbors, but his suspicions weren’t proof. The man’s sister gave him an alibi.”
“Anyone else?”
“There were the same kind of rumors floating around then as now: an indigent—someone passing through the area.”
“Other than the fact Hannah was his wife, why did suspicion fall on her?”
Rose pursed her lips. “Jacob was abusive and everyone had turned a blind eye.” Her face grew grim. “Women didn’t have a lot of choices back then. Divorce caused a scandal, and there were the children to consider. They belonged to the husband, and it was within his rights to deprive his ex-wife of any contact with them.” She shook her head sadly. “It’s only been in the recent past that we’ve created women’s shelters. Back then, they had nowhere to go if their families weren’t in a position to help them.”
“So Hannah allegedly killed out of either revenge or self-defense?”
“Yes,” she answered with hesitation.
“Your great-grandfather didn’t buy into that?”
“No, and neither did Essie.” An angry light flared in Rose’s eyes. “You’re picking scabs off some very old wounds—of both my family’s and Will’s.”
“Why is looking for the truth reopening old hurts?”
“Not solving Jacob’s murder was the biggest regret of my great-grandfather’s life, and we’ve always let it be.” She gave a tired sigh. “Then there’s Will’s family. His great-grandfather, Willie, lost not only his birthright, but his mother.”
“Will said Hannah’s arrest changed his great-grandfather’s life, but I assumed it was because she was arrested.” Confusion was written on Kate’s face. “Will said she wasn’t convicted.”
Rose leaned back in her chair and studied Kate. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You want the truth?” she asked, leaning forward abruptly. “Her attorney and the county attorney made a deal without Hannah’s knowledge. It was determined that she was not guilty due to ‘uncontrollable impulse.’ ”
Kate’s eyebrows shot up. “An insanity plea?”
“Yes, and they confined her to an insane asylum. Willie was taken away and raised by her sister and brother-in-law.”
Kate’s mouth had dropped open and she snapped it shut before speaking. “Those were terrible places,” she declared.
Some of the anger seemed to leave Rose. “Yes, they were. Inmates often lived in substandard conditions. Some were beaten. They were isolated and not allowed any contact with family or friends.” Her lips tightened. “If a body wasn’t crazy going in, they would be shortly after living under those circumstances.”
Kate remembered how she’d felt last night locked up in the jail cell. Sympathy for Hannah flooded her. The woman had lost everything, her home, her child, and never received a reprieve.
“How did Willie ever survive the trauma?”
“He had a good home with his aunt and uncle and went on to become a doctor.” Rose traced a line across the table. “But I don’t think he ever got over the way his mother had been treated. He seldom spoke of her.”
“Is that why Will won’t talk about her?”
“Yes. We’ve come a long way since then, when it comes to the treatment of mental illness. But even now, it carries a stigma.” She tugged on her lip. “Even today, there are those who view it as a genetic defect and one that can be passed on to children.”
“ ‘The sins of the father, ’ ” Kate murmured.
Rose looked at her sharply. “What did you say?”
“It’s in this book.” She handed it to Rose. “There’s an essay in here entitled that, but it’s talking about violence not insanity. At least I think it is. Most of the chapter’s been ripped out.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the book. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it in a trunk out in the old cabin.” A realization dawned in Kate’s mind. “You recognize this book, don’t you? Do you know who the author is?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rose said quickly and handed the book back to Kate. “I’m not familiar with this at all.”
“But, Rose, your grandmother was an early-twentieth-century writer, so was this person. Take a look at it and maybe you will recognize it.” She pushed the book toward her.
Rose’s attention darted away. “No, I won’t. I’m too old to remember such things.”
Bullshit. There wasn’t a thing wrong with Rose’s mind or her memory.
“Rose,” she said painfully, “I don’t believe you.”
Rose abruptly stood. “I’m sorry to hear you say that.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late and you don’t want to leave Trudy for too long.”
Dismissed, Kate picked up her book and left, but on the way home her mind spun with questions.
Hannah had been unjustly locked away, and according to Trudy, this cursed their branch of the family. If Trudy was correct, then logically Hannah must’ve held her stepson Joseph responsible for what happened to her. Why?
And Willie’s birthright—how did it manage to fall to his brother? She understood why Hannah hadn’t inherited a portion of the farm, but it didn’t explain Willie not receiving his share.
Will had minimized the bad blood between his side of the family and Joe’s, but both he and Rose clammed up whenever she brought up Hannah. She’d heard the pride in his voice when he’d spoken of his great-grandfather Willie. Did he harbor more resentment over Willie’s fate than he let on?
A terrible thought occurred to her.
Was it deep enough to seek revenge?