I was born in 1741 and raised in a well-off family of merchants and landowners in colonial New Jersey. I lived in a house I built myself, a big Georgian-style place in Nottingham Township, made to show the kind of man I was — wealthy, educated, and respected. People came to me for decisions, and I gave them. I was the township clerk, a freeholder, a tax collector, a judge, and a delegate to the Provincial Congress. When trouble with Britain began to boil, I stood on the side of New Jersey, or at least that’s what most believed.

But I didn’t make loud speeches, I didn’t wear a uniform, and I held back when others jumped forward. Some called it caution while some called it cowardice. Others whispered the word Loyalist.

And then in 1776, the whispers turned violent. I was found dead not far from home, killed by men from the Continental Army. Some say they thought I was passing secrets to the British. Others say I knew too much and trusted the wrong people.

No one was tried, and no one ever confessed.

After that, my house stayed in the family for decades, but I was remembered mostly as a question mark. A local patriot, or a hidden loyalist. A victim, or a traitor. Maybe I was just a man who tried to live in the middle while the world split apart around him.