I left the two women, peeked in on Andrew, who was now snoring, and headed for the front stairs. The moment I got to the top of the stairs, I saw Abby. She was still in the guest room, and the door was still open. She was on the floor, facedown, as if she'd fallen to her knees, then slumped forward to the floor.
A pool of blood surrounded her. Her head and shoulders had been… hacked. There was no other word for it. I've seen death before, and I've seen violent death, but this made even my gorge rise.
"Jesus," I swore. "How—what—?"
Kristof strode past me, and surveyed the room with a prosecutor's eye. As I walked inside, still struggling to understand what I was seeing, I nearly trampled a piece of Abby's scalp. I stepped over it, then looked down at the body.
The first blow must have killed her. If it hadn't, Abby would have cried out and Bridget or I would have heard her. But the killer hadn't stopped with one blow. There were ten, twenty, maybe more cuts, deep cuts. The fury that had gone into this killing, the absolute rage… I stood there, and I stared at the body, and I couldn't fathom the degree of hate that had done this.
"Who?" I said, wheeling on Kristof.
As his eyes met mine, I knew the answer was obvious. Dead obvious. But I thought of Lizzie, standing at the top of the stairs, laughing at Bridget's struggle with the door lock, then calmly ironing handkerchiefs while her dead stepmother lay one floor above them. To switch from this kind of rage to that kind of calm within minutes, well, it made no sense. What kind of monster—
I looked back at Abby. As I did, in my head I heard a skipping song from childhood.
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks;
When she saw what she had done—
"Oh shit!" I said, and raced for the steps.
I took them two at a time, turned at the bottom, and dove through the closed door.
Wearing her father's overcoat, Lizzie stood behind her sleeping father's head, with her back to me. She lifted a bloodied hatchet, then swung it down.
She gave her father forty-one.
Chapter 19
WE STOOD THERE GAPING AS LIZZIE BORDEN HACKED apart her father's head. Then she laid down the hatchet. Her eyes closed, and her body went stiff as she rose onto her tiptoes. Kristof nudged my arm.
"Look," he whispered.
There, on the sofa, lay Andrew Borden, intact and unblooded, reading the morning paper. Lizzie had backed up to the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor. She blinked, then walked through, needlepoint appearing in her hand.
The doorbell rang.
"Who is it at this hour?" Andrew grouched, slamming his paper to the floor.
"I'll get it, Father."
"No. Go help your mother."
Lizzie nodded, then laid down her needlework and disappeared into the kitchen. In the front foyer, Andrew threw open the door, and barked a greeting at the man there—the doctor who'd come to the door before.
"Just stopped by to see if you folks are feeling any better," the doctor said.
"Feeling better?"
"Yes, your wife came over this morning, said you'd both been up all night with stomach complaints…"
The two continued, having the same conversation they'd had when we'd been watching from the front lawn.
"It's looping back to the start," I said. "Did we miss something? Are the Fates playing it again for me?"
"Someone is replaying it, but I don't think it's for you."
Andrew stormed back into the parlor, sniping to his wife and daughter. A moment later, Bridget rushed past, hand over her mouth. I started going after her, but Lizzie stood in the door, peering through the kitchen toward the back window. I kept going—and bumped into her, hitting so hard, I bounced back.
"She's real," I said, looking over my shoulder at Kristof. "Solid."
Without waiting for his reaction, I strode across the room, reaching out to both Abby and Andrew. My hand passed right through both. As with the doctor outside, I was the corporeal one here. They were the spirits.
"So Lizzie is real," I said. "But only her."
Kristof nodded, as if he'd reached this conclusion already.
"If she's real, then I can talk to her. I saw something in her eyes earlier—"
"She looked at you."
"Yes, but I think I also saw the Nix—or some leftover bit of her. Lizzie Borden must have been one of the Nix's partners. This must be the one the Fates wanted me to speak to, so let's—"
Kristof laid a hand on my arm.
"Don't rush her," he murmured. "Try it again when she's sitting down."
When Lizzie finally sat with her needlework, I plunked down beside her.
"I know you can hear me," I said.
She kept stitching, the needle sliding through the fabric, dragging a blue stream of thread after it.
"Look—" I began.
"Wait," she said.
She looked up at her father, who was adjusting his jacket, preparing to leave.
"Have a pleasant day at work, Father," she said.
He responded with an abrupt nod, and another for his wife, then walked out the front door. Abby and Lizzie worked in silence, as they had before. When Abby headed upstairs, Lizzie's eyes slanted toward me. My cue.
"Good," I said. "Now stop sewing."
"I cannot."
I glanced at Kristof. He motioned for me to ignore the needlework and continue.
"I need to talk to you."
She said nothing, just kept working with swift, determined strokes.
"Look, I am going to talk to you, whether you—"
"Hurry."
"What for? You're not going anywhere. Well, except to kill your parents again."
Her cheek twitched, eyes filling with genuine guilt and remorse, the kind Amanda Sullivan couldn't imagine, much less feel.
"So this is your punishment, then," I said, my voice softer.
"Punishment?" A confused glance my way. "This is what I deserve."
"A hell of her own making," Kristof murmured.
I looked up at him.
"I think this is her doing," he said. "She's created her own hell, and trapped herself in it. No need for anyone to punish her. She does it herself."
A pool of blood surrounded her. Her head and shoulders had been… hacked. There was no other word for it. I've seen death before, and I've seen violent death, but this made even my gorge rise.
"Jesus," I swore. "How—what—?"
Kristof strode past me, and surveyed the room with a prosecutor's eye. As I walked inside, still struggling to understand what I was seeing, I nearly trampled a piece of Abby's scalp. I stepped over it, then looked down at the body.
The first blow must have killed her. If it hadn't, Abby would have cried out and Bridget or I would have heard her. But the killer hadn't stopped with one blow. There were ten, twenty, maybe more cuts, deep cuts. The fury that had gone into this killing, the absolute rage… I stood there, and I stared at the body, and I couldn't fathom the degree of hate that had done this.
"Who?" I said, wheeling on Kristof.
As his eyes met mine, I knew the answer was obvious. Dead obvious. But I thought of Lizzie, standing at the top of the stairs, laughing at Bridget's struggle with the door lock, then calmly ironing handkerchiefs while her dead stepmother lay one floor above them. To switch from this kind of rage to that kind of calm within minutes, well, it made no sense. What kind of monster—
I looked back at Abby. As I did, in my head I heard a skipping song from childhood.
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks;
When she saw what she had done—
"Oh shit!" I said, and raced for the steps.
I took them two at a time, turned at the bottom, and dove through the closed door.
Wearing her father's overcoat, Lizzie stood behind her sleeping father's head, with her back to me. She lifted a bloodied hatchet, then swung it down.
She gave her father forty-one.
Chapter 19
WE STOOD THERE GAPING AS LIZZIE BORDEN HACKED apart her father's head. Then she laid down the hatchet. Her eyes closed, and her body went stiff as she rose onto her tiptoes. Kristof nudged my arm.
"Look," he whispered.
There, on the sofa, lay Andrew Borden, intact and unblooded, reading the morning paper. Lizzie had backed up to the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor. She blinked, then walked through, needlepoint appearing in her hand.
The doorbell rang.
"Who is it at this hour?" Andrew grouched, slamming his paper to the floor.
"I'll get it, Father."
"No. Go help your mother."
Lizzie nodded, then laid down her needlework and disappeared into the kitchen. In the front foyer, Andrew threw open the door, and barked a greeting at the man there—the doctor who'd come to the door before.
"Just stopped by to see if you folks are feeling any better," the doctor said.
"Feeling better?"
"Yes, your wife came over this morning, said you'd both been up all night with stomach complaints…"
The two continued, having the same conversation they'd had when we'd been watching from the front lawn.
"It's looping back to the start," I said. "Did we miss something? Are the Fates playing it again for me?"
"Someone is replaying it, but I don't think it's for you."
Andrew stormed back into the parlor, sniping to his wife and daughter. A moment later, Bridget rushed past, hand over her mouth. I started going after her, but Lizzie stood in the door, peering through the kitchen toward the back window. I kept going—and bumped into her, hitting so hard, I bounced back.
"She's real," I said, looking over my shoulder at Kristof. "Solid."
Without waiting for his reaction, I strode across the room, reaching out to both Abby and Andrew. My hand passed right through both. As with the doctor outside, I was the corporeal one here. They were the spirits.
"So Lizzie is real," I said. "But only her."
Kristof nodded, as if he'd reached this conclusion already.
"If she's real, then I can talk to her. I saw something in her eyes earlier—"
"She looked at you."
"Yes, but I think I also saw the Nix—or some leftover bit of her. Lizzie Borden must have been one of the Nix's partners. This must be the one the Fates wanted me to speak to, so let's—"
Kristof laid a hand on my arm.
"Don't rush her," he murmured. "Try it again when she's sitting down."
When Lizzie finally sat with her needlework, I plunked down beside her.
"I know you can hear me," I said.
She kept stitching, the needle sliding through the fabric, dragging a blue stream of thread after it.
"Look—" I began.
"Wait," she said.
She looked up at her father, who was adjusting his jacket, preparing to leave.
"Have a pleasant day at work, Father," she said.
He responded with an abrupt nod, and another for his wife, then walked out the front door. Abby and Lizzie worked in silence, as they had before. When Abby headed upstairs, Lizzie's eyes slanted toward me. My cue.
"Good," I said. "Now stop sewing."
"I cannot."
I glanced at Kristof. He motioned for me to ignore the needlework and continue.
"I need to talk to you."
She said nothing, just kept working with swift, determined strokes.
"Look, I am going to talk to you, whether you—"
"Hurry."
"What for? You're not going anywhere. Well, except to kill your parents again."
Her cheek twitched, eyes filling with genuine guilt and remorse, the kind Amanda Sullivan couldn't imagine, much less feel.
"So this is your punishment, then," I said, my voice softer.
"Punishment?" A confused glance my way. "This is what I deserve."
"A hell of her own making," Kristof murmured.
I looked up at him.
"I think this is her doing," he said. "She's created her own hell, and trapped herself in it. No need for anyone to punish her. She does it herself."
