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Things were disappearing in my neighborhood.

Jewels, expensive-looking heirlooms, some medicines and spirits. There was a thief in the area, Harry Moser’s wife had gotten a peek at him, and a rendering was put up on the town board.

He was handsome, if the likeness was true. A strong jaw, sharp eyes beneath a dark brow, bearded. The day of St. Valentine drew near, when any man or woman without the warmth of another body in their bed was a thing to pity. I’d gone five years without that joy, since my husband’s death, and I was damned by the sad cow eyes my fellows sent my way. To lie with a widow was taboo, moreso when she was young and childless, as I am.

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