CHAPTER 103

As Caleb and I left the park, turning down Court Street and heading into the heart of the historic district of Boston, the old Statehouse came into view. It was a large, brick building, perfectly preserved from the 1700s, with multiple historic windows and topped by a large, white cupola. It was stunning in its simplicity and beauty.

As we reached its base, we walked around the structure, looking for the site of the Boston massacre. Finally, as we turned the corner, we saw it.

We both stopped in our tracks.

It was a ring. A perfect circle.

The spot marking the Boston massacre was small, hardly bigger than a manhole cover. We came close and examined it.

It held no special markings. It was just a humble circle, made up of small tile, embedded in the ground at the base of the Old State House.

“It makes sense,” Caleb said. “We are definitely on the right trail.”

“Why?”

“That balcony, above it,” he said, gesturing. “That’s where the Declaration of Independence was first read.”

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