Somewhere between Boston and Hell

Journal Entry – April 3, 1871

Somewhere between Boston and Hell

They say a woman’s reputation travels faster than a telegram. If that’s true, mine’s likely waiting for me in every dusty town west of the Mississippi.

I left Boston with a bloodstain on my sleeve and no regrets in my bag. The papers called it a ritual killing, demonic symbols. Throats cut clean. One “eyewitness” even claimed he saw a witch fleeing the scene. A witch. Imagine that.

I didn’t look back when I boarded the train. I was never good at hiding. I was good at reading people at giving them precisely what they wanted, until they begged for mercy or begged for more.

Ma says we’re starting over. That Kansas holds promise. A fresh field of souls pretending to be saved. Pa’s still preaching, John Jr. still skulking, and I’m still smiling with a knife under the table.

Something’s coming.

Or someone.

And I’ll be ready.

— K