Prologue

December 1965…

The first letter arrived the day before Thanksgiving.

It was typewritten, folded with precision, and sealed inside a simple white envelope. The address, also typed, was not accompanied by the name of the sender or from where it came. The message inside was brief, impersonal, but unmistakably threatening. It promised that someone was watching. That someone knew where she lived, what time she left for work, and how often she walked alone at night. It ended with a warning: Be careful.

The second letter arrived two days later, the day after Thanksgiving. Almost identical, but in the mailbox of a second woman.

Neither of the two took them very seriously, dismissing them as a bad joke. A prank meant to scare them, perhaps a cruel trick from a jealous co-worker or a jilted lover. They were immediately thrown in the trash and forgotten.

Two days later, two more women received similarly menacing letters in their mailboxes.

For the first time, one of the recipients had the sense to go to the police. She turned the letter over to an officer who said it was probably just a practical joker trying to get a rise out of her, but suggested all the same, she make sure to lock her door at night. The officer’s dismissive attitude did little to ease any fear.

But as the days passed and letters continued arriving, more women turned to the Parker City Police Department. After a dozen letters were turned over to the PCPD, Lieutenant Wallace Kerns, the chief’s deputy, finally opened an investigation. And once the police took serious notice and became involved, it was only a matter of time before the newspapers picked up the story. When they did, it was all anyone could talk about. The Blue Ridge Herald ran its first article under the headline: Anonymous Stalker Targets Local Women—Who Will Be Next? The Chronicle Dispatch, never one to be outdone, took a more dramatic approach: Is Parker City’s Police Force Failing to Protect Women?

The stories fanned the flames of paranoia, and soon, reports of a dark figure lurking in neighborhoods at night flooded the police station. No two sightings were identical, however. Some claimed the figure was tall and broad-shouldered, others said he was slim and moved like a shadow. But they all agreed on one thing: he was watching. And he was waiting.

The letters were no longer just an eerie nuisance; they had become something else entirely. A warning of what was to come. Though there was not a single person who knew what that was. Except the person sending the letters, leaving the city in a near panic.

Real crime was a rarity in Parker City. It had its share of bar fights, a few domestic disturbances, the occasional armed robbery, but this, this was something else entirely.

Chapter One

Elizabeth Blakely didn’t think much about the letters at first. Like everyone else in Parker, she was aware of what was going on, reading the news every morning over breakfast. The headlines were difficult to ignore. And as more letters began showing up, as a single woman, she found herself just as unnerved as all the others in town. So far, the police had made no connection between any of the recipients, which meant anyone could be next.

But it was a thought Elizabeth tried to put out of her mind as much as possible. During the day, the hum of the office filling the air—telephones ringing, papers shuffling, murmured conversations behind closed doors—allowed her to forget about what was going on outside and the anxiety spreading across the city. Unfortunately, her days at the office brought with them a different type of unease.

Elizabeth knew that all of the men she worked with couldn’t keep their eyes off her. Whenever she was in the breakroom making herself a cup of coffee or standing over the Xerox machine running off the latest department reports, she could feel their eyes roaming up and down her body. It was something she’d grown used to because it’d been the case ever since she was a teenager. But it wasn’t her fault that she’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on who you asked—with an incredible physique.

Tall and slender, with the right curves in exactly the right places, coupled with the face of an angel and piercing crystal blue eyes, she drove the men wild. While she couldn’t deny she enjoyed the attention, she realized deep down it was more a sense of lust than anything else that had the heavy-breathing, testosterone-jacked-up men circling. On the rare occasion a man would actually take the time to get to know her, he’d discover Elizabeth was one of the sweetest people one could ever meet. She’d give you the shirt off her back if you asked, which is what most of the lecherous men were hoping for.

But she was also smart and full of life. She loved reading and dreamed of traveling to far off destinations, learning about the culture and peoples around the world. Even though it was a time when women were beginning to stand up and demand to be seen as more than simply pretty faces meant to cook and pop out babies, she was desperate to find a kind, intelligent man to settle down with. The kind of man who would hold her in his arms and make her feel safe yet never smothered, and who would honestly listen to her and never treat her as an object.

What Elizabeth wanted was the perfect life.

“A pie-in-the-sky dream!” her best friend Joyce would yell at her, trying to get her to see some sense. “You can’t have it all, sweetie. No fuckin’ way. No fuckin’ how.”

Granted, this was usually after Joyce would come home blitzed following a night of partying, riding high on a wave of feminine self-determination, and still aglow following a meaningless one-night stand. But liquor made Joyce strong…and mouthy. After a few drinks, she wasn’t afraid to tell you what she really thought. Not that she didn’t do that when she was sober. The only difference was she didn’t use as much profane language when she wasn’t half in the bag.

At the end of the day though, Elizabeth just wanted to be happy. She’d grown up seeing her parents madly in love with one another. Her father always doting on her mother and his two little girls. Her father was a “businessman”—which was all her mother ever said he was—who seemed to do well for himself judging by the fact she and her sister grew up wanting for nothing.

They lived in a big house with a pool, went on a family vacation every year, and always had money for new clothes to start school. For good or bad, her parents also encouraged their girls to follow their dreams. When Elizabeth said she was interested in business and wanted to go to college and earn a degree that would land her a good job, her parents didn’t try to dissuade her. Her father did sit her down and explain how she might find the going difficult at times, but he said he was more than willing to support her.

Her mother never said it to her, but Elizabeth knew she was worried that pursuing a career would hamper any chance she had of finding a husband and having a family. Career women weren’t something her mother grew up with, so she couldn’t understand any woman’s desire to work in an office all day and not find the joy in making a home for her family. She’d raised two wonderful girls and loved every minute of it. She felt being a good wife and mother was enough of a job. There was no need for any other type of satisfaction. Most importantly though, Elizabeth’s mother desperately wanted grandchildren. And with Elizabeth having just turned thirty and still not being married and seeing no prospects on the horizon, all hope now fell on Patricia.

Elizabeth’s younger sister seemed to have found exactly what their parents had. Kenneth, her husband of less than two days, was almost too good to be true. A handsome and loving former high school football star turned banker. Patty was in her glory and transformed into a glowing bride as she walked down the long aisle of Saint Joseph’s Episcopal Church with all their family and friends gathered for the occasion.

While all eyes had been on Patty, Elizabeth could still hear the whispers of those wondering why it was the younger sister getting married first. But for the most part, she was able to put the remarks out of her mind and celebrate the love her little sister had found.

As she sat at her desk in the Accounting and Business Office of Upton’s Department Store the Monday following the wedding, she did admit there was something about seeing Patty in the long, flowing, white chiffon dress that was nagging at her. It wasn’t jealousy. That wasn’t it. But there was a surprising yearning in the pit of her stomach that she’d never experienced before.

Elizabeth always knew she wanted to be married and have a family, but she’d never felt envious after attending someone’s wedding. But she was getting older. A fact her mother had taken to pointing out to her more and more recently in the subtlest of fashions.

She shook the thought away and returned her focus to the stack of papers in front of her. Numbers didn’t lie, and they didn’t demand introspection.

Brushing a lock of chestnut hair from in front of her eyes, she turned back to her typewriter and the report that was only half complete. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed the young man in a dark gray mohair suit quietly approach her desk. But suddenly he was standing there hovering over her with a smile on his face that would put a shark to shame.

“Where was that pretty head of yours, sweetheart?”

The voice made her skin crawl.

“Dick! You scared me,” she said, instinctively placing a hand on her chest.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” Richard Calhoun offered, not even trying to conceal his eyes lingering on her perfectly shaped breasts beneath the green cardigan she was wearing. The way he looked at her, like she was something to be devoured, set her teeth on edge.

“A little daydreaming on the job? No harm in that, kitten.”

“No, just thinking about my sister’s wedding,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Hey, that’s right,” he said, snapping his fingers and perching himself intrusively on the edge of her desk. “Penny got married this weekend, right?”

“Patty,” Elizabeth gently corrected, desperately trying not to roll her eyes. “Yes. She did. This past Saturday.”

“Patty, right. Sorry. Hey, I bet you were a real fox in your bridesmaid dress.” The smirk on his face made her fingers curl into a fist beneath the desk. Leaning in just enough that all she could smell was the overpowering scent of his after shave, he said, “We should grab a bite after work. You can tell me all about it.”

She felt the familiar tightness in her chest. The uncomfortable balance of politeness and self-preservation. Saying no outright would only make him more persistent.

“Not tonight, Dick. I’m still pretty tired from the weekend. And I might have to work late to finish these reports.”

His smile remained, but the light in his eyes dimmed. Just slightly. There was a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable.

Calhoun was the guy in the office that none of the girls wanted to be left alone with. He was always on the hunt, just ready to pounce. With his Brylcreemed hair and the cloud of Aqua Velva after shave that continuously lingered around him, Dick Calhoun fancied himself a true ladies’ man. And he’d had luck with a number of the salesgirls in the store, but the few women who worked in the executive offices on the third floor found the young associate business manager to be an obnoxious skirt chaser. Not that any of them could say anything about his behavior to any of their bosses because he was also Old Man Upton’s nephew.

“Maybe another time,” she added quickly, hoping to smooth over the rejection.

“One of these days, you’re going to take me up on my offer,” he said, his voice lower now, his gaze fixed on hers. “And when you do, you’ll realize how lucky you are.”

Elizabeth forced a tight-lipped smile, her pulse quickening. Calhoun held her gaze for a moment longer before sliding off the desk and sauntering back toward his office. But just before he disappeared behind the door, she swore she saw him lick his lips.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“Everything alright, Miss Blakely?” she heard a deep voice ask from behind her.

That was the second time someone managed to sneak up on her without her noticing. At least in this instance it was someone she didn’t mind seeing standing next to her desk. Alfred Marsh was the opposite of Dick Calhoun. Where Calhoun was all slicked-back bravado and leering stares, Marsh was effortlessly charming with a quiet confidence, wrapped in a shy demeanor. He wasn’t just handsome—he was dreamy, the kind of guy who, without even trying, made a girl’s heart skip a beat.

Tall and handsome, with a strong jawline and a pair of deep-set hazel eyes that always seemed to be thinking a step ahead, he had the kind of looks that made women whisper behind their hands and giggle like schoolgirls. And he didn’t even know it. That made him all the more attractive.

Unlike the other men in the office who made it their mission to gawk at her whenever she walked by, Alfred Marsh actually looked at her—like she was a person, not just a set of curves poured into a pencil skirt. It was unnerving in a way Elizabeth hadn’t expected. A man like him could make a girl forget herself.

Joyce, ever the blunt one, had taken one look at him and whistled. “Now that’s a fox,” she’d declared, loud enough for half the department store to hear. “And if you don’t make a move, sweetheart, I will.”

Elizabeth had rolled her eyes at the time, but now, with him standing there, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his well-tailored suit, she had to admit Joyce wasn’t wrong.

“Is everything alright, Elizabeth?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. His hazel eyes flicked toward Calhoun’s door, and though his expression remained calm, there was a sharpness behind it. He knew. Of course, he knew.

“Good,” he said, but there was something else in his tone. A quiet understanding.

She felt herself exhale, only now realizing she had been holding her breath.

Alfred hesitated, then nodded toward the papers on her desk. “I came by to grab the updated sales figures. I thought I’d save you the trip.”

She blinked, then laughed, relieved for the subject change. “Your office is right there,” she pointed out. “Wouldn’t have been much of a trek.”

He grinned, that easy smile that could knock a girl sideways if she wasn’t careful. “I owe you one.”

She grinned. “I’ll add it to the running tally, but it’s kind of my job.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and for the first time that day, the tightness in her chest eased. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “By the way, heard about your sister’s wedding. How was it?”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Word travels fast.”

He shrugged. “I might have overheard something.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “It was nice. You know how weddings are. Too many flowers, too much crying, and way too much cake.”

“Sounds about right.” He considered her for a moment, then gave her a small nod. “Well, I have some calls to make. Thanks again for these.”

Removing the files, he uncovered a copy of the day’s Dispatch with its headline staring directly at him, declaring the city was gripped with fear by the mysterious letter writer. A concerned look crossed his face and he looked as though he was about to say something but caught himself. Giving Elizabeth a little nod of the head, he walked to his office, leaving behind only the faintest trace of cologne—subtle, clean, nothing like the overpowering scent Calhoun left in his wake.

Elizabeth let out a breath. She glanced toward the office door where Calhoun had disappeared and then back to the stack of papers in front of her.

By five-thirty, most of the office had emptied, except for a few stragglers finishing up their work. One of whom was Dick Calhoun. Elizabeth had no idea what he’d been up to in his office behind closed doors all afternoon, but when he emerged ready to leave for the day, he appeared agitated.

Passing by Elizabeth’s desk on his way out, he looked down at her and said, “Be careful out there.”

Elizabeth’s heart stopped, quickly casting her eyes down to the newspaper lying on her desk. Wasn’t that the way all the mysterious letters ended? Be careful.

No, Elizabeth told herself. She was just being paranoid. All he meant was to be careful getting home because it had started snowing a little earlier which would make getting around more difficult. That had to be it. She shouldn’t let her mind play tricks on her.

When she’d finished her work, she gathered her things and slipped on her coat, shivering slightly as she stepped out into the brisk December air. A light layer of snow lay on the ground as the city streets were lit by the golden glow of shop windows, adorned with festive garlands and twinkling lights. Christmas was just around the corner, but the usual excitement that came with the holiday season was dampened by the underlying tension that gripped the city. There were many who hoped the festive season would help people forget about the recent headlines. But so far, as everyone continued with their annual traditions of decorating and preparing for the holidays, the women of Parker City still found themselves looking over their shoulders, wondering if someone was watching them from the shadows.

Even with the sidewalks filled with people on their way home from work or heading to a restaurant for dinner, Elizabeth felt uneasy. She couldn’t stop thinking about Dick Calhoun’s last words to her as he walked out the door. And the way his dark eyes looked at her from under the brim of his hat. It set her nerves on end. And now, even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she felt as though someone was watching her.

Picking up her pace, her heels clicking against the pavement, as she turned the corner onto her street, she felt her pulse quicken ever so slightly. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. She forced herself to relax, seeing her apartment building just down the block, its brick façade glowing in the streetlamps. She and Joyce shared the apartment on the first floor of the converted townhouse only a few blocks from Upton’s Department Store. They’d turned the place into a comfortable and inviting home where they’d often have girlfriends over for dinner and game nights.

Fishing her keys from her purse and unlocking the building’s main door, then the door to her apartment, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief to be home. Turning on the light in the tiny entry hallway, she noticed that Joyce’s coat was missing from the closet, meaning she wasn’t home yet. Not having spoken with her yet today, she also didn’t know what her plans were for the night or if she’d even be coming home. So, Elizabeth figured she was on her own. Not an uncommon occurrence.

Turning on the lights of the small Christmas tree the roommates had set up in the corner of the living room, she took a moment to enjoy the decorations, rearranging a few of the ornaments that still didn’t look like they were in the perfect place. Standing back to see if the changes helped to balance the tree better, she smiled at her work.

Heading into the bedroom, she dropped her purse on the bed and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her aching feet before walking into the kitchen at the rear of the apartment. It was small, just big enough for two people to move around comfortably, but not without brushing against a chair or grazing the counter’s edge. The walls were a pale yellow, faded from cooking and the occasional cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. A Formica table with chrome legs stood in the center of the kitchen, its surface clear except for a set of salt and pepper shakers and a stack of mail. Apparently, Joyce had come and gone already, collecting the day’s post and depositing it on the table for Elizabeth to see.

The linoleum floor, patterned in a checkered design of dull green and cream, let out a soft creak as Elizabeth walked to the compact refrigerator humming in the corner, pondering what to make for dinner. Eyeing the ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a rooster sitting on top of the refrigerator, Elizabeth begrudgingly admitted a plate of cookies would not be a good dinner. Letting a sigh of disappointment escape her lips, she opened the refrigerator and began examining its contents. But as she had her head in the refrigerator, deciding what she wanted to eat while watching To Tell the Truth that night, behind her, outside in the building’s backyard, a shadow quietly passed by the kitchen window.

***

Excerpt from CAT & MOUSE by Justin M. Kiska. Copyright 2026 by Justin M. Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M. Kiska. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Morristown – January 1780

There was a nervous rustling in the white-washed meeting house, a disturbance of air like the sound of sparrows taking wing.

Becca Parcell peered over the balcony’s rough, wood railing, blinking away the fog of half-sleep. She had been dreaming of the figures in her account book and wondering whether there would be enough money for seed this spring.

“I didn’t hear what ….” she whispered to Philip’s mother.

Lady Augusta Georgiana Stokes Parcell, known simply as Lady Augusta, covered Becca’s hand with her own. “Philip. They’re speaking of Philip.”

Becca couldn’t tell whether it was her hand or Augusta’s that trembled.

“The Bible says, if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee, does it not?” The preacher’s voice was soft, yet it carried to every corner of the congregation. “They’re here. Amongst us. Neighbors who toast the King behind closed doors. Neighbors with no love of liberty.”

Philip was a Patriot. He had died a hero. Everyone knew. Minister Townsend couldn’t be talking about him.

The minister raised his eyes to hers. With his long thin arms and legs and round belly, he reminded her of a spider. She twisted her lips into the semblance of a smile as if to say “you don’t scare me.” But he did.

“Which of your neighbors celebrates each time a Patriot dies?” Townsend’s voice rose like smoke to the rafters, took on strength and caught fire. “Their presence here is an abomination.” He rapped the podium with a flat palm, the sound bruising in the quiet church. “Then cast them out. Now.”

Men pounded the floor with their feet.

Becca flinched. It wouldn’t take much to tip the congregation into violence. Everyone had lost someone or something to this endless war. It had been going on for almost five years.

Townsend’s thin arm rose, pointing to her.

Becca’s breath caught.

“And what of widows like Mrs. Parcell? Left alone, no longer guided by the wise direction of their husbands.”

Guided? Becca pulled her hand from Augusta’s. She rubbed her thumb along the palm of her hand, feeling the rough calluses stamped there. She had learned the rhythm of the scythe at the end of the summer, how to twist and swing low until her hands were so stiff that she’d struggle to free them from the handle. She’d fallen into a dreamless sleep each night during the harvest too exhausted even to dream of Philip. She, Augusta and their servant Annie were doing just fine.

“He hardly slept at home, as I hear it,” a woman behind her sniffed to a neighbor.

Becca’s spine straightened.

“No wonder there were no babes,” the second woman murmured.

Becca twisted and nodded a smile to Mrs. Huber and Mrs. Harrington. Their mouths pursed into surprised tight circles. She’d heard them murmur, their mouths hidden by fluttering fans: About her lack of social graces; her friendship with servants; her awkward silence in company. “What else could you expect from her?” they would say, snapping shut their fans.

Relief washed through Becca, nonetheless. This was merely the old gossip, not the new rumors.

“Some of you thought Mr. Parcell was just another smuggler.” The pastor’s voice boomed.

A few in the congregation chuckled. It was illegal to sell food to the British in New York – the “London Trade” some called it — but most turned a blind eye. Even Patriots need hard currency to live, Becca recalled Philip saying.

“He only married her for the dowry,” Mrs. Huber hissed.

Becca’s hand curved into a fist.

Augusta cleared her throat, and Becca forced herself to relax.

“Perhaps some of you thought Mr. Parcell was still a Tory,” the minister said.

The chuckling died.

“He came to his senses, though. He was, after all, one of us,” Minister Townsend continued.

One of us. Invitations from the finer families had trickled away after Philip’s death.

“We all know his story,” Townsend continued. “He smuggled whiskey into New York City. And what a perfect disguise his aristocratic roots provided.” The minister lifted his nose in the air as if mimicking a dandy.
“The British thought he was one of them, at least until the end.” The minister’s voice swooped as if telling a story around a campfire. “He brought home information about the British troops in the City.”

Becca shifted on the bench. She hadn’t known about her husband’s bravery until after his death. It had baffled her. Philip never spoke of politics.

Townsend lifted one finger to his chin as if he had a new thought. “But who told the British where Mr. Parcell would be on the day he was captured? Who told the Redcoats that Mr. Parcell was a spy for independence?”

Becca forgot to breathe. He wouldn’t dare.

“It must have been someone who knew him well.” The minister’s gaze moved slowly through the congregation and came to rest on Becca. His eyes were the color of creosote, dark and burning. “Very, very well.”
Mrs. Coddington, who sat to Becca’s left, pulled the hem of her black silk gown close to avoid contact. Men in the front pews swiveled and stared.

“I would never. I didn’t.” Becca’s corset gouged her ribcage.

“Speak up, Mrs. Parcell. We can’t hear you,” the minister said in a singsong voice.

Townsend might as well strip her naked before the entire town. Respectable women didn’t speak in public. He means to humiliate me.

“Stand up, Mrs. Parcell.” His voice boomed. “We all want to hear.”

She didn’t remember standing. But there she was, the fingers of her right hand curled as it held the hunting bow she’d used since she was a child. Becca turned back to the minister. “Hogwash.” If they didn’t think she was a lady, she need not act like one. “Your independence is a wickedly unfair thing if it lets you accuse me without proof.”

Gasps cascaded throughout the darkening church.

From the balcony, where slaves and servants sat, she heard two coughs, explosive as gun fire. She twisted. Carl scowled down at her in warning. His white halo of hair, fine as duckling feathers, seemed to stand on end. He had worked for her father and helped to raise her. He had taught her numbers and mathematics. She couldn’t remember life without him.

“Accuse? Accuse you of what, Mrs. Parcell?” The minister opened his arms to the congregation. “What have we accused you of?”

Becca didn’t feel the chill now. “Of killing my husband. If this is what your new nation stands for – neighbors accusing neighbors, dividing us with lies – I’ll have none of it. “Five years into this endless war, is anyone better off for Congress’ Declaration of Independence? Independence won’t pay for food. It won’t bring my husband home.”

It was as if she’d burst into flames. “What has the war brought any of us? Heartache, is all. Curse your independence. Curse you for ….”

Augusta yanked on Becca’s gown with such force that she teetered, then rocked back onto the bench.

The church erupted in shouts, a crashing wave of sound meant to crush her.

Becca’s breath came in short puffs. What had she done?

“Now that’s just grief speaking, gentlemen. Mrs. Parcell is still mourning her husband. No need to get worked up.” The voice rose from the front row. She recognized Thomas Lockwood’s slow, confident drawl.
She craned her neck to watch Thomas, with his wheat-colored hair and wide shoulders. His broad stance reminded her of a captain at the wheel. He was a gentleman, a friend of General Washington. They’ll listen to him, she thought.

“Our minister doesn’t mean to accuse Mrs. Parcell of anything, now do you, sir?”

The two men stared at each other. A minister depended on the good will of gentlemen like Thomas Lockwood.
The pastor blinked first. He shook his head.

Becca’s breathing slowed.

“There now. As I said.” Lockwood’s voice calmed the room.

Then Mr. Baldwin stood slowly. Wrinkles crisscrossed his cheeks. He’d sent his three boys to fight with the Continental Army in ’75. Only one body came home to be buried. The other two were never found. He pointed at Becca with fingers twisted by arthritis. “Mrs. Parcell didn’t help when the women raised money for the soldiers last month.”

A woman at the end of Becca’s pew sobbed quietly. It was Mrs. Baldwin.

“You didn’t invite me.” Becca searched the closed faces for proof that someone believed her.

“Is she on our side or theirs?” another woman called.

The congregation quieted again. But it was the charged silence between two claps of thunder, and the Assembly waited for a fresh explosion in the dim light of the tired winter afternoon.

With that, Augusta’s imperious voice sliced through the silence: “Someone help my daughter-in-law. She’s not well. I believe she’s about to faint.”

Becca might be rash, but she wasn’t stupid, and she knew a command when she heard one. She shut her eyes and fell gracelessly into the aisle. Her head and shoulder thumped against the rough pine floorboards.

Mrs. Coddington gasped. So did Becca, from the sharp pain in her cheek and shoulder.

Women in the surrounding rows scooted back in surprise, their boots shuffling with a shh-shh sound.

“Lady Augusta,” Mrs. Coddington huffed.

Independence be damned. All of Morristown seemed to enjoy using Augusta’s family title, her former title, as often as possible.

“Lady Augusta,” she repeated. “I’ve had my suspicions about that girl since the day she married your son. I don’t know why you haven’t sent her back to her people.”

“She has no ‘people,’ Mrs. Coddington. She has me,” Augusta’s voice was as frosty as the air in the church. “And if I had doubts about Rebecca, do you think I’d live with her?”

Becca imagined Augusta’s raised eyebrows, her delicate lifted chin. She couldn’t have borne it if her mother-in-law believed the minister’s lies.

Augusta’s featherlight touch stroked her forehead. “Well done,” she murmured. “Now rise slowly. And don’t lean on me. I might just topple over.”

“We are eager to hear the rest of the service on this Sabbath day, Minister Townsend. Do continue,” Thomas Lockwood called.

Becca stood, her petite mother-in-law’s arm around her waist. The parishioners at the edges of the aisles averted their eyes as the two women passed.

As they stepped into the stark, brittle daylight, one last question shred the silence they left behind: “Do you think she turned her husband over to the British?”

Someone else answered. “It must be true. Everyone says so.

***

Excerpt from The Turncoat’s Widow by Mally Becker. Copyright 2021 by Mally Becker. Reproduced with permission from Mally Becker. All rights reserved.