The Invited(77)

Friends and neighbors expressed sorrow at the horrific events that transpired at the old Gray farmhouse, but neighbor William Marsh said he was not surprised. “Sam had a temper and he was a drinker,” Marsh explained. “He’s had trouble with the farm, making ends meet. I think his wife and kids bore the brunt of it. I’ve seen bruises and black eyes on ’em. I’ve heard the yelling and screaming.”

Police declined to comment on whether there was a known history of domestic violence in the home.

“Ann was just an angel,” neighbor Penny Stromberg said. “Full of life, always smiling. Such a good friend and neighbor. And those poor children. Can you imagine? It’s heartbreaking, what they’ve had to endure.”

Family members could not be reached for comment.



Helen stepped back, skin prickling, feeling suddenly cold all over.

Gone. Ann was gone.

“It’s so fucking awful,” Riley said out loud. “Terrible things happened to all of those women: Hattie, Jane, Ann. It’s like the women in that family were all cursed. Doomed to have their lives end in violence.”

Helen nodded, eyes still on the picture in the article—the smiling faces of Ann and Samuel in front of their Christmas tree. “Where’s Elsbury?” she asked.

“Southeast of here. Probably a little over an hour away.”

“I think I’ll take a ride down there. Take a look around.”

Riley looked up at her, squinting a little. “You want to bring something back, don’t you? For the house? For Hattie?”

Helen nodded. “I feel like it’s the least I can do. A way to pay tribute.”

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to bring Ann back. Helen let herself imagine it—three generations of Breckenridge women in her kitchen.

Riley looked at her a minute. “It’s like you’re creating a sort of family tree with objects,” she said. “It’s such a beautiful idea. A real way to honor those poor Breckenridge women.”

    Riley turned back to the computer, typed again, scanned the screen, then found what she was looking for. “202 County Road, Elsbury,” she said, writing it down on a scrap of paper. “That’s where the old Gray farmhouse is. Where the murder took place.”





CHAPTER 23



Olive





AUGUST 7, 2015

“You got these from where, exactly?”

Olive was kneeling on the ground outside with a hammer and chisel, cleaning the old cement off the bricks. They’d spent the morning inside, working on the wiring. Riley had come by to help for a bit, and they’d finished the entire downstairs. Then Riley left to get to work, and Nate ran down to the trailer.

Olive scraped at the brick with the chisel. She had her new I see all necklace tucked under her T-shirt.

Helen and Nate were going to use the bricks to build a hearth in the living room, underneath the woodstove. Helen explained that instead of the traditional fireplace at the heart of the old New England saltbox, they’d have a much more efficient high-tech woodstove. They should be able to heat the whole house much of the time and use the propane heat for backup on really cold days. Olive nodded thoughtfully. She liked the little history lessons Helen incorporated into everyday conversations and had learned a lot about colonial New England and how the first settlers survived. Those were the stories that interested her the most. She didn’t care much about heat sources or how energy efficient a woodstove was. She wanted to hear about chopping wood, killing animals, how there were no refrigerators so people cut ice in blocks out of lakes.

“I picked them up at an old mill that’s being renovated,” Helen said. She was working on her own brick with a wire brush. “They were just going to throw them away—I got them for free.”

She smiled proudly. Olive had been around Helen and Nate enough to know that the house budget was an issue. Nate seemed super stressed about it and was always holding up spreadsheets and stuff to show to Helen. Helen was a little more laid-back and had this don’t worry, everything will work itself out attitude.

    It reminded her a little of her own parents—how her dad would sit down at the end of the month with all the bills and a big calculator and get all stressed out, and Mama would bring him a beer and massage his shoulders and promise that things were going to change one day soon.

“The bricks look old,” Olive said, holding one in her hands. “And some of them are all black and stained like they’re from the inside of a chimney.”

“There was a fire at the mill. It destroyed part of the building.”

“Cool. Where was the mill?” Olive asked.

“Up in Lewisburg.”

Lewisburg. The name sent off a ping in Olive’s brain. The receipt she’d found for coffee and a candy bar, the little red star on the map, the bottom left corner of the triangle.

“The mill was once the center of the community up there, until there was a big fire in 1943.”

“What happened?” Olive asked.

Helen gave Olive a protective, worried sort of look that Olive’s own mother might have given her. “It’s a pretty terrible story,” she said.

“Then I definitely want to hear it,” Olive said. “Come on, it can’t be worse than the stuff Aunt Riley has told us about Hattie and what happened to her, right?”