In August of 1914, I left for the war in Europe, where I would serve the majority of my time as a soldier with the British Empire. I would not return home for good until 1920, and it was then that I began to speak with those who had been left behind.
I listened to the fey in my woods, and to my old friends in Cross. I spent many hours in the Cross Historical Society, and I learned of the various events which had occurred since I set sail for war.
Like most of America, Cross was not overly affected by the war. Murder, it seems, had increased during my absences. I made a careful list of those who had died, and for whom no killer had been apprehended. And then, near the end of 1921, I went about the business of finding the killers.
The first name on the list was that of Maureen Clark, the eldest of four sisters and the only child from her father’s first wife. She died after a fall from the staircase in the family home. All the money left to the daughters, which Maureen had been the distributor of, was divided equally among the three remaining children, who promptly sold the family estate and moved to Boston town.
I found them living in a small, quiet neighborhood in Quincy, and on the morning of December 16, I followed them from their home to the train and back to Cross.
From the station, they walked leisurely along Main Street and I gained ground on them slowly, and when they turned up a narrow alley to go to a small restaurant, I was close behind them. When they paused at the entrance, I drew my Colts and I cut them down where they stood.
The shots roared in the confines of the alley, and blood exploded across the brick walls.
When all three were down, I walked up to each of the three sisters and put a bullet into their bellies.
As the calls for the police rang out through the morning air, I smiled.
It was good to be home.
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