26. Clem September 13, 1888
Mother,
How could you not tell me of the stoning deaths?
Did you mean to protect me? Did you think I would be frightened off?
Mother, I am not protected if I act in ignorance.
I am not a child of eleven anymore, terrified and helpless.
I understand that you wish me to risk as little as possible, but keeping the truth from me solves nothing.
I learned of it from a constable who came to our door and observed that the paper missiles at the courthouse bore a resemblance to the pattern made by the stones in these abominable murders. Murder, Mother. Why, why didn’t you tell me?
You understand, you must, that this changes everything.
Freeing you is not enough. What freedom would it be, to carve out our own place of safety while other women’s lives are in peril?
What freedom would it be, to live in a place where such crimes go unchecked?
Even if we were to think only of ourselves, you must see that a society capable of such murders will also stop at nothing to seek vengeance, and I doubt we would find refuge even by fleeing Salem.
No—there will be no peace for us when you are free.
A lone, earnest police constable is apparently their sole antagonist. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He will be crushed, and they will continue their destruction.
We must do more, Mother.
Love,
Clem