By Dana Cameron
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Extra resources for A Fugitive Truth
What the heck was going on around here, that everyone should be so wound up? Officer Gary Conner suddenly decided to depart from our little tête-a-tête. I jumped back out of the way, but he didn’t, however, pull away fast enough for me to miss the words “just like that other dyke” he spat out on the way past. Obviously he had many other calls of a similar nature to make, possibly kittens that wanted a jack-booted stomping. I just shook my head and wandered back to the house as the sunlight finally bled away in the west.
In the front hall was a small table with discreet notices left for residents, and I found my packet there. There was also a Victorian coat stand, the sort with a seat, hooks, and an umbrella rack, just like Grandpa Oscar and Grandma Ida used to have in Cambridge. On the table I found a room key marked 3, and so began the trek up the stairs. Number 3 was off to the left and faced the front. Just like downstairs, there were four rooms, two on either side of the hallway, with the bathroom in an addition on the back.
The only problem was that the pages were a little loose within the binding: there was no way that I could photocopy the journal without damaging it further, if in fact Shrewsbury allowed photocopying of bound volumes. That didn’t matter so much, as I would have to transcribe it into my notebook computer anyway. Taking a deep breath, as if I were about to plunge from the high board, I opened to the first page. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the eighteenth-century handwriting, but the first of my several fears was allayed: Madam Chandler wrote with a beautifully clear hand.
A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron