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This is murder she told.

The house was quiet but not at peace. Phineas Mitchell stood by the window for a moment,

peering out into the blackness that blanketed the fields. The summer night was pleasant and warm,

but the air was still and heavy. He could see hints of moonlight catching the edges of the maple

leaves, turning them silver in the breeze.

Inside, the only sounds were the ticking of the mantle clock and the shallow, uneven breathing of

his wife Evelyn, asleep in the back room with their newborn. She was still weak from the birth

just two days ago, and Phineas was trying to let her rest. That's why he was still

awake, checking on the baby, tending to the fire, and to his wife. Phineas was the kind of man

who always had something to do with his hands. Their farm, like most in the rural farming town

of Carmel, Maine, was plain and practical. A weathered, clabbard house

sat low to the ground without buildings scattered around the property. Nothing fancy, just enough.

Phineas had worked this land for decades. He and his wife had ten children in all, though only six

were still under their roof. Their oldest were off working or

married. They were a working-class family in the truest sense. Everything they had came from the dirt,

the sweat on their brows, and the hands of their family. There were no hired hands, no machinery,

...