by Blythe Baker
“I was adopted as an infant,” I said. “And my mom doesn’t know who my birth parents were.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting. Well, I hope you find the answers to what you’re looking for,” she said. “If you need me, I’ll be up front at the desk.”
“Alright, thank you,” I said.
I sighed as she closed the door behind herself.
I poured over the book for the better part of an hour before I opened up to a page somewhere in the middle of the book; I’d lost count of how many deaths I’d read about.
Tucked into the tight spiral of the book’s spine, I saw the perforated edges of what looked like the remnants of a page. I ran my finger across it.
A page had been here once, but had been hastily torn out.
I quickly flipped through the rest of the records, wondering if this had happened again. I didn’t find any evidence of any other pages being ripped out.
Standing, I scooped the book off the table and made my way back out to the front of the city hall.
The room was warm. There were polished wood beams along the walls and paintings hung between the tall windows. The floor was an old travertine tile, but whoever cleaned the building did such a good job that everything looked brand new.
The clerk who’d helped me find the records was talking on the phone behind her desk. A line of people sat in chairs nearby, scrolling through their cell phones or staring blankly into the distance.
I walked up to the clerk’s desk, feeling the angry glare of the woman sitting in the seat closest, as if I were cutting her space in line.
“Yes…mhmm. Of course, Mr. Blake. Yes. I’ll take care of it. Mhmm, buh-bye.”
She hung up the phone and looked up at me.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Please make it quick. As you can see we have quite the line today.”
“It won’t take a minute,” I said, setting the book down on the desk in front of her. I turned it around so she could see it the way I had.
I pressed my finger against the torn edge of the paper.
“Someone ripped a page out,” I said.
The clerk lowered her glasses, peering over the jeweled frames. Pulling the book closer to her, she squinted at the page. “You sure?” she asked.
“Pretty positive,” I said.
The woman set the book down. “Okay? And?” she asked.
“Well…I’d like to know what page is missing,” I said. “That might be the page I was looking for.”
“Honey, the chances of that being the page you need are slim to none,” the clerk said, spinning in her swivel chair away from me.
If only you knew the truth about what’s happened to me since moving here, I thought to myself. Then you wouldn’t think that it was just a coincidence. “Even still, is there any way for you to look this up in a database or something?” I asked. “I imagine that death records would probably be kept on a digital file.”
The clerk arched an eyebrow at me, and I thought I heard her mutter something about “impertinent” under her breath. “I’ll check,” she said, spinning again in her chair toward her computer. She did some swift typing, staring at her screen underneath her glasses. I was starting to wonder if she wore them for looks when she leaned in close to the screen, her nose wrinkling as she squinted at it. “Can I see the book again?” she asked.
I passed it closer to her.
After a few frustratingly silent minutes, the woman pulled her glasses off and looked up at me.
“The records are gone,” she said.
“What do you mean gone?” I asked.
She shrugged, staring at the screen. “Just that. The ones missing from the book don’t exist in the database, either.”
I frowned. “That’s odd,” I said. “Is there any way to find those lost files?”
“I’m sorry, no…” the clerk said. “Someone with really high access would be the only ones who could get to these files, and that’s not me.”
I sighed. “Great…” I said. “So there’s nothing else you can do? Nowhere else you can look for them?”
“To be very honest with you, I just took this job about a year ago,” the clerk said. “The woman who worked here before me was the one who set up the whole system, and she periodically comes in to do checks on it. She was quite insistent that everything stayed exactly like she left it. Not that I’m complaining, of course. She was probably the most organized person I ever met. Paranoid, sure, but she’s made my job easier.”
“Would she have the access needed to delete those files?” I asked. “Or be able to figure out who could’ve done it?”
“I don’t know,” the clerk said with another shrug. “I mean, I guess she’d be the one to ask. But she’s retired, and from what I hear, she doesn’t like to be bothered in her retirement.”
“What’s her name?” I asked, already opening my phone to get her contact information.
“Ruth Cunningham,” the clerk said, scratching her cheek.
“And where does she live?” I asked.
“Whoa, you want to go visit her?” the clerk asked. “Bad idea, honey, bad idea.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “It’s very important that I find out who my parents were.”
The clerk’s brow furrowed. “You don’t even know if these entries that are missing involve your parents,” she said.
“That’s true,” I said with some reluctance. “But if they do, then I need to get those answers.”
“Suit yourself,” the clerk said heavily. She gave me Ruth Cunningham’s address, as well as her phone number. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if she asks who gave you the information, don’t point her in my direction,” she said.
I knew the clerk was right about there not being any guarantee the files that had been ripped out were for either of my parents. But too much had happened in this town, and the darkness that had been seeping into the lives of the Gifted and non-Gifted always seemed to connect one event with another. Whenever I felt like I was closer to figuring out who my parents were, the answers would slip away just before I discovered them.
This felt like the same thing.
And what was the harm in asking this woman what she knew? If she couldn’t tell me anything, then maybe she could help me find someone who could.
Regardless, it was the best lead I had at the moment. And I wasn’t afraid of a cranky old woman.
Not after everything else I’d seen in Faerywood Falls.
END OF EXCERPT
About the Author
Blythe Baker is a thirty-something bottle redhead from the South Central part of the country. When she’s not slinging words and creating new worlds and characters, she’s acting as chauffeur to her children and head groomer to her household of beloved pets.
Blythe enjoys long walks with her dog on sweaty days, grubbing in her flower garden, cooking, and ruthlessly de-cluttering her overcrowded home. She also likes binge-watching mystery shows on TV and burying herself in books about murder.
To learn more about Blythe, visit her website and sign up for her newsletter at www.blythebaker.com