Drat. Ivy glanced up the road toward the orphanage roof that peeked above the treetops, then back toward town and Widow Bairns. So close.
“I’m so sorry.” Maggie read Ivy’s indecision as offense.
She couldn’t miss this opportunity to find Gabriella’s baby. Ivy reached out and patted Maggie’s shoulder. “You go on back.” Maggie would be safe, wouldn’t she? Ivy grimaced. The only danger would be to herself. She’d seen the book with writing in it, and for all her attacker knew, she’d seen him. Maggie was an innocent, but Ivy would need to retrace her steps home. Alone. Maybe she should return with Maggie. Before Ivy could reach a conclusion, Maggie smiled shyly.
“Thank you for understanding.” She whirled and hoisted her skirts, hurrying down the road without so much as a backward glance.
A stick snapped behind Ivy, and she spun back toward the orphanage, scanning the path and the dark edges of the woods behind her. She was committed now. Ivy hurried the final quarter mile to the orphanage and up the home’s stairs, stopping only long enough to brace her hand against the porch rail and survey the road one last time. A murder of crows fluttered from the trees nearby. Something had disturbed them. Most likely her own frantic pace and Maggie’s retreating form.
Ivy rapped on the orphanage door, her furtive glances over her shoulder revealing nothing but the birds. Murder of crows. Horrible term, considering the circumstances. Why couldn’t they be flocks like other birds?
The orphanage door opened, and Ivy saw the familiar inside of the home. Its interior was plain, just as she remembered. Mr. Casey, the orphanage director, peered at her, his expression a scowl. He’d never been pleased with her visits, and apparently nothing had changed. She and Andrew had met Joel when their small Sunday school group had come for an afternoon to recite Bible verses for the orphans and share homemade cakes. Something had been markedly unique about Joel. The mischief in his eyes perhaps? The way he could stare right into her eyes and read her mind? Whatever the case, she and Andrew hadn’t wanted to leave with their group because they’d found unusual comradery in the orphan. So they’d returned the following day with the excuse of bringing Joel a storybook. The day after that, it was a wooden whistle in hand as a gift, after which Mr. Casey put a stop to their almost daily visits to see Joel. Yet the refusal to allow them friendship was not to be entertained by the trio. Because of that, their childish selves snuck out at nighttime to seek adventure in the woods and to be together. It continued into their teenage years, Joel savvy enough to avoid his absence at night from being detected, but then their escapades halted abruptly when Andrew—
“Well, well, Miss Thorpe.” Mr. Casey’s deep voice broke into Ivy’s chaotic nostalgia. “It’s been quite some time.” His hooked nose reminded her of a pirate, or a villain, or—Ivy blinked to clear her thoughts. Her mind was running wild, something she rarely allowed it to do. She was just unnerved. Joel had unnerved her—on many levels.
“What can I do for you?” Mr. Casey opened the door with a grimace that indicated he did so more out of etiquette and obligation than hospitality. For twelve years she had avoided this home and its memories of Joel. Twelve years she’d denied the orphanage even a charitable service. Mr. Casey had the right to hold some sort of grudge.
Ivy stepped inside, thankful when the orphanage door closed with a solid thud behind her. She never conceived of taking refuge in the orphanage, but for now it served its purpose and hid her from the shadowed woods.
“I need to make an inquiry about the children here.” Best to remain polite and pleasant. Ivy smiled with as much charm as she could manage.
“Ah, I see. Looking to adopt an orphan, are we?” Ivy didn’t miss his sarcasm as he smoothed back his thinning gray hair. Mr. Casey made no effort to hide his sigh as he led her into his office. He moved behind his desk as if he was most comfortable there in his place of authority.
Ivy shifted her weight onto her other foot. “It will only take a moment.”
“Very well.” Mr. Casey motioned for Ivy to sit, so she eased onto a green leather chair with wooden arms. “But, I should tell you, unmarried women are not allowed to adopt.”
Ivy nodded. “I know.” For goodness’ sake, he was going to make this difficult.
“Least of which, being yourself,” he muttered under his breath.
Ivy stiffened, her ire raised. “Pardon me?”
Mr. Casey eyed her as he made a tent with his fingertips and tapped them together. His eyebrow raised. “You’re the memory keeper. Your death journal? There is much about you, Miss Thorpe, that has become . . . shall we say, a bit concerning, especially since everything that happened some time ago.”
“I merely write the stories of those who have gone before. Nothing more.” Ivy resisted having to defend herself. Why couldn’t others understand that keeping memories alive wasn’t a fascination with death? Life was so important. The image of Andrew fluttered through her mind, and Ivy blinked it away. She loosened her grip on her purse before she strangled it. “I’m not looking to adopt, Mr. Casey, although I did want to inquire if you’ve received any babies recently.”
Mr. Casey choked and eased onto his chair. “Babies do not fall from the sky, Miss Thorpe.”
Ivy bit back a retort. “Mr. Casey,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I only meant to inquire as to whether you have taken in a baby that might be traced back to Gabriella.” She winced. Applying a name to an unidentified body would only build his case that she did in fact have an unhealthy friendship with the dead.
“The murdered girl?” Mr. Casey pursed his lips.
“Yes.” Ivy had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Joel, growing up under this man’s care.
“How recent would you like me to report to you?” There was no missing the scorn in Mr. Casey’s question. “A year? A month? A week?”
No one knew how long Gabriella had been living in Foster Hill House, but the physical evidence pointed toward childbirth no further back than a couple of weeks.
“Any time in the last month?” She hoped the time frame would give some range for the director to work within.
Mr. Casey clasped his hands over a ledger on his desk. “We did. A girl.”
She’d been right! Ivy’s excitement pushed her to the edge of her seat. But Mr. Casey’s smug expression sent her hope crashing as fast as it had risen.
“The girl was left here several days ago. But she was brought by her mother herself. She was simply a young lady in a position of serious indiscretion.”
“What did she look like?” Ivy wasn’t willing to accept his dismissal. The timeline was perfect.
Mr. Casey frowned even deeper as he reached for a quill pen and tapped its tip with his index finger, fixing his stare on her. “Brown eyes, dark hair, and she wore a blue dress.”
Ivy’s shoulders sagged. That was nowhere near the angelic Gabriella with her nearly white hair and pale blue eyes. “You’re certain the woman was actually her mother? Perhaps there was another baby that you received.”
Mr. Casey lifted his spectacles from the desk and slipped them on his face. “Miss Thorpe, contrary to rumor and common perception, orphans are not delivered to us like used inventory to be logged and shelved.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“And”—Mr. Casey lifted his hand to stop her—“the ones that do arrive here I most certainly remember. So to imply I have a baby brought by the dead waif who was murdered on Foster Hill and I merely misplaced it is heinous.”
Ivy had no words. There was truth in what he said.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Mr. Casey rose to his feet, a sure sign any further inquiry was not welcome.
Ivy stood reluctantly. “Thank you for your time.”
She followed him out of the office, noting the way his polished black shoes took firm steps toward the door with no hesitation. He certainly didn’t seem like he was lying or hiding anything, and he had no reason to. Once he pulled the front door open, Mr. Casey lo
oked at her and said, “Best of luck in whatever it is you believe you’re trying to do.”
She paused at the base of the porch stairs and glanced back at the house where Joel had spent the majority of his childhood. It was certainly more welcoming than Foster Hill House, but there was a chilly air surrounding its asylum appearance. Ivy sighed. When Andrew died, it was clear she needed Joel more than she ever had before, and when he didn’t show at the grave that night, she was more than crushed. She was betrayed. But now, as she pondered the civil but stern interaction she’d just had with Mr. Casey, a twinge of conscience made her wonder whether she’d misjudged Joel.
Ivy walked across the barren yard and past the picket fence that bordered the orphanage acre. She reached the road, then hesitated. Its gravel was packed but moist, and stretched longer and emptier than she wished.
She startled as a bulky form rounded the corner of the fence. Her body tensed, poised to run back into the orphanage, but then her shoulders sagged in relief. “Hello, Mr. Foggerty.”
The trapper’s bushy eyebrows raised in recognition. His hat was squashed onto his head, making his wiry gray hair stick out like horns over his ears. “Ivy, hello. Any word on that poor girl yet?”
Ivy eyed him for a moment. He was the first to discover Gabriella. She either owed him a great debt or . . . a great amount of suspicion. She shook her head. That was unfair. Mr. Foggerty had been trapping in these woods since she was a child. “Nothing yet,” she finally answered.
Mr. Foggerty clucked his tongue. “Such a shame. Pretty little child.”
Child. Yes. Gabriella had been quite young, it appeared. Ivy nodded. “We will find her killer.”
Mr. Foggerty adjusted the burlap sack over his shoulder. Ivy stared at the bottom of it, soaked in dark red, the blood of his trapped animals that must be piled inside. Her stomach turned. There was something violent about the sack, intimidating and threatening.
“I’d best be on my way.” He pointed to the woods beyond the orphanage. “Mr. Casey let me set traps over yonder at the creek. I’m hopin’ for some otter today.”
Otters. Dead, trapped otters. Ivy swallowed at the idea of the trap’s vengeance on the little animals. “Goodbye then.” She waved at the older man. He returned the wave and set off in the opposite direction. Thankful he wasn’t going her way, Ivy regretted not returning with Maggie, especially now that she’d uncovered nothing at the orphanage.
Hurrying forward, Ivy followed the footprints in the patchy snow she had left on her walk there. They overlaid some carriage tracks and one of an automobile, until she joined with Maggie’s footprints coming toward the orphanage and then returning to town.
Ivy increased her speed. An unnerving sensation of being watched had raised bumps on her arms. Had Mr. Foggerty opted to follow her instead? He and his sack of dead animals?
A raindrop hit her cheek, and she swiped it away with her hand. The clouds were dark and churning. A spring storm with its icy drops and thunder was exactly the ambience she didn’t need on her lonesome return to town. Ivy rushed down the aisle of trees, their scraggly arms reaching for her. Her toe caught on a stone in the road and she stumbled, righting herself as her left foot planted alongside her footprint from earlier.
Ivy froze.
Beside it was the impression of a larger set of footprints. Most assuredly not hers or Maggie’s. They were booted and deep. The weight of a man that overlapped her original steps.
A frigid gust of wind surged through the woods and plastered loose tendrils of hair to Ivy’s cheek. Shivering, she fastened the top button on her coat. She searched the woods for a face, a form, a pair of eyes, anything.
“Mr. Foggerty?” Her voice quivered as she called. Perhaps he’d followed her and Maggie, innocently checking traps. But traps were set in the woods, not on the road.
Movement by the trunk of a maple tree made Ivy squint. Rain began to fall in earnest, the drops like tiny knives assaulting her face. The figure of a man came into view, and her eyes widened. He stepped from behind the tree, his features hidden by the downpour and shadows.
“Mr. Foggerty?” she called again, unable to make out details in the heavy rainfall. Thunder rumbled and rolled its warning through the thick clouds.
“None to hear you. None to care.” The figure’s voice mocked her, mingling with the pounding of rain against the canopy of trees. She didn’t recognize the voice but could distinguish its tone as thunder swallowed the words.
Terror catapulted Ivy into a sprint. Her feet slipped in the mud as she ran. He was right, whoever he was—there was none around to hear or see. She was alone. Foolishly alone.
Chapter 15
Kaine
She’d been selfish to pester Grant Jesse at one in the morning. But it was too late now, so Kaine took a deep breath, and the truth fell from her mouth, escaping like it didn’t want to be held captive a moment longer. Grant let her spill without interruption, but his face tightened as she told him an abbreviated version of what brought her from San Diego, of her stalker, and now the refocus on Danny’s death.
“Man, Kaine. Come here.” Grant didn’t address the word vomit she’d just expelled. He reached for her hand and led her back to the house. His grip was comforting and confident. Right now, Kaine needed someone who could inspire her own sense of self-confidence that warred against the feeling of being hunted. She and Olive followed him up the porch steps. As the red farmhouse door pushed open beneath his hand, the sandy-colored pit bull lunged toward her. Kaine squealed, but Grant put out his free arm.
“Down, Sophie.” He gave Kaine a crooked smile. “She’s friendly, just super exuberant.”
Kaine scratched the dog’s head, and Sophie licked her hand. Olive hurried in after her, the dogs sniffing noses again.
Grant closed the door and locked it. The sound of the dead bolt sliding into place eased the last of Kaine’s panic.
“In here.” Grant showed her into the living room. An oversized black leather sofa tempted Kaine’s overtired body. A love seat angled to the right of it and formed a half square in the middle of the room, with a massive stone fireplace in the corner. There were coals in the firebox, and Kaine wondered if it would be rude to pull the couch right up to it and stick her feet on the hearth.
The lights were dim and emanated from iron floor lamps with shades in two different hues of burnt orange. The plaster walls were painted in a subtle khaki, and a large rug in the center of the floor was vibrant with more oranges and reds, browns and blacks. Kaine was ready to peel off her shoes and dig her toes into the rug. Everything about this space contradicted the dark, gray hollowness of Foster Hill House.
Kaine sunk into the welcoming couch cushion, and Olive settled over her feet, her body warmth a special kind of comfort. Grant grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and handed it to her. Sophie eyed them from across the room, then dropped to the floor by the fireplace.
“Coffee?” Grant’s complete lack of response to her unannounced visit and shocking pronouncement was soothing. It must be his career that enabled him to hide any reactions to emotionally charged situations.
Kaine nodded, then shook her head. No. She really shouldn’t. “No, no. That’s okay. I really need to go and let you get some sleep now that I’ve dumped my drama all over your home.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Grant’s smile was gentle but protective. The kind that told her she’d be safe with him even in a zombie apocalypse. He pushed his blond hair back from his forehead. His chunky black glasses framed eyes that pierced her with their sea-green intensity. “I have a Keurig. Colombian or Guatemalan?”
She would have preferred hazelnut, but Kaine was in no position to be picky.
“Guatemalan.”
“Perfect. Sorry, it’s not decaf.”
“That’s fine.” She wasn’t going to sleep anyway. Kaine picked at a loose thread on her yoga pants as she waited. A clock ticked on the wall. A worn Bible sat on the coffee table, along with a highlight
er and a Louis L’Amour western. Finally, Kaine could breathe without fear lacing each intake of air.
Grant returned with two mugs of coffee. He handed her one, teal-and-brown pottery. His orange mug had a silhouette of buck antlers on the side. He settled on the couch next to her, close enough that Kaine could feel the warmth of his body. Grant took a sip of his brew, then lowered it from his mouth. His upper lip had an indentation in the middle. Kaine used to kiss Danny on his. She looked away.
“So . . .” He took another sip of coffee. “Danny.”
Kaine stared into her mug. The dark liquid was hypnotizing as it swirled with creamer he’d failed to mix in with a spoon. She couldn’t meet Grant’s eyes. He was too tender. She was vulnerable tonight. The broken part of Kaine longed to cover the few feet between them and curl into his broad chest, feel his strong arms around her, and the assurance she was safe. This was what it was like to be on the side of the abused. To run until exhaustion and fear either drove you mad or pushed you into the grip of someone who would pull you to safety.
“Danny,” Kaine whispered, reminding herself that Grant wasn’t him. She sipped the coffee, her eyes following a particle floating on its surface.
Grant shifted in his seat but didn’t say anything.
“I saw Danny in the morning before I left for work. He . . . was drinking from a water bottle and had just been for a run.” Her voice cracked. “I blew him a kiss. He was sweaty and I didn’t want to . . . I didn’t want him to hold me.”
Lying at her feet, Olive sighed and stretched her four legs out.
“And that was the last time you saw him?” Grant said.
Kaine lifted her eyes. Grant’s were serious and searching. Somehow she could tell he understood not just her pain but her guilt. She should have held Danny. She should have let him love her that morning. But, like every other morning, a list of names riddled her mind. Names of women she needed to check on, to help, to shelter, to save. Her kiss had been blown with familiar complacency. How Danny’s hand had swiped the air as he caught the imaginary kiss would forever be tattooed in her memory. He’d held his hand to his lips, his eyes pleading with her to stay, deep with desire to love her. Then they had dimmed as she reached for her car keys. He never understood the compelling drive she had for her work. He never understood what she’d always hidden from him. But he had supported her, in spite of it.
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