Page 14 of Phobia
“What’s her story?” I asked, unable to resist.
“She was Increase Walsh’s daughter.” He lowered his eyes from the ceiling, kicking his chin toward the shorter of the figures. “A magistrate.” Adam folded his arms over his chest. “The story is that she loved a painter, and he loved her back. But they weren’t allowed to be together because,” he gestured toward the taller of the two figures, “she was supposed to marry Josiah Roberts’ son.”
I tracked Adam’s unhurried strides toward the figures, his eyes narrowing. “Walsh’s daughter and the painter tried to run away together, but they were caught at the border of Rhode Island.” I could visualize it all so perfectly—two frantic silhouettes moving furtively through the depthless night, trusting only the stars above them to lead to them to their escape… only to have their love story cut short by people who were against them.
“They slit his throat right there in front of her,” he said.
I lost my control of the gasp, my hand shooting to my mouth. Jesus Christ. Puritans means of upholding the law could be barbaric, but this was extreme for this kind of infraction. “For trying to run away?”I asked against the barricade of my fingers.
“Duty,” he said simply. “You don’t wrong a Founding Family, I guess. Even if their blood ran through you.” He pivoted, stabbing the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Their descendants still live in town.” He looked unimpressed, sniffing. “When we were in high school, they said if you drove across the Runnins River bridge, toward the border, and flicked your headlights three times for every life they stole, you’d see her… or hear her.”
My throat stretched around the gulp. Every life they stole? Wasn’t it just the one?
He filled in the blank. “Rather than have their daughter embarrass them, they threw her off the clock tower in forced penance.” He dropped his arms, hesitating. “She was pregnant.”
Three lives stolen. Now it made sense.
I rocked back on my heels, the tension knotting in my shoulders as I stared out into the archway. People entered the gallery room and turned around when they realized what was in here.
“You okay?” Adam prompted.
I nodded soberly, meeting his eyes. Taking slow, deliberate steps over to him, I halted in front of the figures, staring up into their frozen faces.I hoped karma was as cruel to them as they’d been to her.
“There’s one thing that’s odd, though,” Adam said.
“What’s that?” I asked, looking his way.
“There’s five Founding Fathers. There’s three missing.”
I glanced at the placard at their base, reading off the names.
He was right.
Five names, two figures.
Roberts.
Walsh.
Taylor.
Mather.
Alcock.
Where were the rest?
The chuckle he let out was dry and short. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” he said, reading my mind. “These assholes in ruffles all look the same. Most people can’t tell them apart.” He reached for my hand, ending the conversation. “Ready to get out of here?”
For some reason, I couldn’t compel myself to leave.I opened my mouth to speak, but the chime of a grandfather clock going off in the corner of the room cut me off.
There was something almost allegorical about the gallery compared to its counterparts, as though there was a hidden meaning out in the open and no one could place it. Someone paid homage to the girl whose life their rules had stolen.
And now she looked down on them from above, while they remained in purgatory on earth below.The room felt like a warning.
I stared into the eyes of the one Adam had pointed out as her father, wondering how anyone who’d brought you into this world could do that to you without hesitation.
Had he suggested it?
