See What I Have Done - Softcover

Sarah Schmidt is a librarian from Melbourne. She became obsessed with the Borden story after coming across Lizzie's case by chance in a second-hand bookstore and her passionate research has even taken her to stay for several nights in the Borden house. Find out more on her website https://sarahschmidt.org/ and on Twitter @ikillnovel.

ONE

LIZZIE

August 4, 1892

HE WAS STILL bleeding. I yelled, “Someone’s killed Father.” I breathed in kerosene air, licked the thickness from my teeth. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I looked at Father, the way hands clutched to thighs, the way the little gold ring on his pinkie finger sat like a sun. I gave him that ring for his birthday when I no longer wanted it. “Daddy,” I had said, “I’m giving this to you because I love you.” He had smiled and kissed my forehead.

A long time ago now.

I looked at Father. I touched his bleeding hand, how long does it take for a body to become cold? and leaned closer to his face, tried to make eye contact, waited to see if he might blink, might recognize me. I wiped my hand across my mouth, tasted blood. My heart beat nightmares, gallop, gallop, as I looked at Father again, watched blood river down his neck and disappear into suit cloth. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I walked out of the room, closed the door behind me and made my way to the back stairs, shouted once more to Bridget, “Quickly. Someone’s killed Father.” I wiped my hand across my mouth, licked my teeth.

Bridget came down, brought with her the smell of decayed meaty-meat. “Miss Lizzie, what . . .”

“He’s in the sitting room.” I pointed through thick, wallpapered walls.

“Who is?” Bridget’s face, prickly with confusion.

“I thought he looked hurt but I wasn’t sure how badly until I got close,” I said. Summer heat ran up my neck like a knife. My hands ached.

“Miss Lizzie, yer scarin’ me.”

“Father’s in the sitting room.” It was difficult to say anything else. Bridget ran from the back stairs through the kitchen and I followed her. She ran to the sitting room door, put her hand on the door knob, turn it, turn it.

“His face has been cut.” There was a part of me that wanted to push Bridget into the room, make her see what I had found.