— She? —

— Yes. — Petrie looked up, sharp blue eyes narrowed against the sun. — This is a female. Based on dentition and the condition of her vertebrae, she was fairly young, certainly under the age of thirty-five. All in all, she's in remarkably good shape. — Petrie looked at Julia. — Except for the crack you made with your trowel. —

Julia flushed. — I thought the skull was a rock. —

— It's not a problem distinguishing between old and new fractures. Look. — Petrie dropped to a squat again and picked up the skull. — The crack you made is right here, and it doesn't show any staining. But see this crack here, on the parietal bone? And there's another one here, on the zygomatic bone, under the cheek. These surfaces are stained brown from long exposure to dirt. That tells us these are premor-bid fractures, not from excavation damage. —

— Pre-morbid? — Julia looked at her. — Are you saying… —

— These blows almost certainly caused her death. I would call this a murder. —

In the night, Julia lay awake, listening to the creak of old floors, the rustle of mice in the walls. As old as this house was, the grave was even older. While men were hammering together these beams, laying down the pine floors, only a few dozen paces away the corpse of an unknown woman was already moldering in the earth. Had they known she was here when they built on this spot? Had there been a stone marking the site?

Or did no one know she was here? Did no one remember her?

She kicked aside the sheets and lay sweating atop the mattress. Even with both windows open, the bedroom felt airless, not even a whisper of a breeze to dissipate the heat. A firefly flashed on and off in the darkness above her, its light winking forlornly as it circled the room, seeking escape.