In the far corner of a seedy speakeasy known as the Blue Feather, seventeen year old Ruth Squire tried to avoid the interested eye of a repugnant patron. The impatient bartender waved his hand toward the stage—it was her turn to sing, but the metallic taste of fear drenched her tongue and slithered downward until her stomach burned. She took a step back.
A female voice whispered from behind, “Remember why we are doing this Ruthie. You can’t abandon him now.”
Slowly, courage overtook the fear. One step—another, until she stood center stage. The piano began the prelude, and she closed her eyes. A few tremulous notes exhaled through ruby lips, but strengthened as memories of the murderous carnage at home unfolded and steeled her will. The choice to save him was hers. Instead of a pack of crude, bawdy men in a smoke-filled room, she envisioned Peter, the man she came to rescue. Her eyes opened, and she remembered…

Late Friday afternoon, February 1929
A shard of light punctured the somber, country scene, a flash that vanished so quickly, Ruth Squire wondered if it was imagination or reality. The next instant, a well-dressed man emerged from behind a far off willow tree and disappeared down the dirt road, alone. From that distance, she couldn’t tell his age, but noticed the black fedora hat, the dark suit, and shiny black shoes. In light of the recent murders, not only in Detroit proper, but even in her own house, fear reminded her it wasn’t over.

The snow fell silently, covering the dead grass, and dusting the gravestones in the antiquated cemetery on the edge of town. Winter decided to creep into the quiet necropolis as if to remind its temporary occupants who remained in charge. There was no rhyme or reason to this murder, no logical explanation, yet here they stood in front of a casket about to be lowered into the ground. Ruth’s heels sank into the lifeless sod, but at her side, Peter Kirby gripped her elbow a bit tighter. She wanted to cry, tried to force it…almost willed the tears to spring forth, but when she blinked, the rough sandpaper she called eyelids dissolved any thread of emotion. So far, the year 1929 was a complete disaster.

The air was silent except for the forlorn cry of a faraway mourning dove. Ruth looked to the sky and felt tiny snowflakes kiss her numb cheeks. We shouldn’t be here, this shouldn’t be happening. Whose bizarre idea was this, anyway? She looked up into Peter’s solemn face. A shiver ran through her and it was an automatic response to lean into him for warmth. The last thing she wanted to do was attend this funeral. Her heart was too raw, the pain too fresh. Surprised at the paltry attendance, she looked from one stone face to the next. Why did they bother to come? Why did I?

Finally, the last scripture was read, the last hymn was sung, and the ritual handfuls of dirt thumped against the wooden box deep in the hole. It’s over.

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