This time I know it, I know it with a certainty that chokes my throat with panic, that grips and twists my heart until it’s ripped from its mooring. This time, I’m too late.
If you come from New England, the creeping certainty that you are a bad person is always with you.
Throughout the night of Friday, September 7, 1900, Isaac Monroe Cline found himself waking to a persistent sense of something gone wrong.
The thing that finally nudged Agatha Raisin into opening her own detective agency was what she always thought of as the Paris Incident.
The knowledge that Archer would soon end the life of another cut at his soul with every step he took.
At first, the priests and bishops called it a scourge from God. They preached that only the impure needed to fear it. That the holy hand of the Father was purging the wicked from the earth. But the holy hand of the Father started purging priests and bishops too. They call it a plague now.
History, in its most cursory form, is often a beauty contest: abbreviated judgments based on imagery and sound bites that commonly have substance yielding to superficiality.
Many people say you should start at the beginning. I’m not one of them. I hate long, drawn-out stories that go on and on until your eyes cross. Just give me the nitty-gritty. Yet if I told you about the night I died, you might shake your head at what sounds like a bizarre ghost story.