Chapter 11

Eve stood on the sidewalk studying the crime scene, imagining how the building looked fifteen years ago. Not quite as shabby, she thought, no boards on the windows. From her sense of the Joneses, they would have assigned staff, kids, themselves to scrub off any tagging.

Maybe this time of year there had been some holiday wreath instead of a police seal on the door.

The buildings around it would have changed a little here and there. Owners selling, tenants moving out, moving in.

She considered the tat parlor and the bargain electronics shop with the going-out-of-business sign that had likely been up since it opened. Then scanned over to the small, anemic market on the other side.

According to the canvass the tat parlor had only been in that location for seven years, but apparently the market had been struggling along for more than twenty.

The uniforms she'd sent out hadn't gotten much from the owner... Dae Pak, she confirmed from her notes.

She crossed over, stepped inside. It smelled earthy, the way she imagined farms did. A guy of about twenty with ink-black hair hacked into an airboarder chop at the counter. A dragon tat he might have gotten a couple doors down circled his left wrist. From his sullen expression, she deduced he wasn't in love with his work.

She ignored him and walked up to the old man with a face the color and texture of a walnut who methodically stocked bags of instant noodles on a shelf.

"I'm looking for Mr. Pak." Eve held up her badge.

"I talk to cops already." With an expression as sullen as the counter boy's, he pointed a stubby finger at her. "Why you not come around when the kids steal me blind? Huh? Huh? Why you not here then?"

"I'm Homicide, Mr. Pak. I work murders."

He held out his arms to encompass the market. "Nobody dead here."

"I'm glad to hear it, but twelve girls were killed in the building next door."

"I hear all about it, don't know nothing. You come in here, you buy something."

She dug for patience because he looked about a million years old, and the kid at the counter was snickering at him. She walked over to the cooler, yanked out a tube of Pepsi, snagged a candy bar at random, then slapped them on the counter in front of the snickerer.

He scanned them, and under her baleful stare stopped snickering. She paid, stuck the candy bar in her pocket, cracked the tube of Pepsi.

"I'm a paying customer," she told Pak.

"You bought, you paid, you go."

"I'm amazed you're not packed with paying customers with all this cheerful, personalized service. Twelve dead girls, the oldest we've identified from what was left of them was fourteen, the youngest twelve. You've been in this location a long time. Some of them must have come in here. You'd see them walk by, hear their voices. Whoever killed them left them to rot away to bones, with no respect, with families who searched for them."

He only scowled, jammed packages on the shelf.

"Every day when you opened, when you closed, when you stocked your shelves, swept your floor, they were over there in the dark. Alone."

He tightened his walnut face. "Not my business."

"I'm making it your business." She glanced around the market. "I could probably find some violations around here if I wanted to play hard-ass like you are. Or I could put in a request for an extra beat cop to patrol this area. Which way do you want it?"

"I don't know about dead girls."

Eve gestured him to the counter, took out the photos, and laid them out with the boxes of gum and breath mints at point of purchase. "Anyone look familiar?"

"You all look the same." But for the first time he cracked a little smile. "They come in here all the time, the girls, the boys, steal from me, make noise, make mess. Bad girls, bad boys. I think when they leave there it stops. But there are always more. I work, my family work, and they steal."

"I'm sorry about that, but these girls sure as hell won't be stealing from you. They're dead. Look at them, Mr. Pak. Do you remember any of them?"

He huffed out a breath, adjusted his stance, leaned over until his face was only inches away.

"Hasn't had his eyes fixed in over a year," the boy said.

"My ears work. Go finish stocking. This one. Trouble."

He jabbed the stubby finger on Shelby's face.

"She steals. I tell her she can't come in here no more, but she sneaks. I go over, talk to the lady, and she is polite. She gives me fifty dollars and says she is sorry, she will speak to this girl and the others. She is gracious, and it is better for a little while. This girl."

Eve's eyes narrowed as he pointed at Linh Penbroke.

"Are you sure?"

"She is dressed like a bad girl, but she has good family. It shows. I remember her because she didn't steal, and she paid for what this one, the bad one, took."

"They were together? These two?"

"Late, near when I close."

"Was this before or after the group next door left the building?"

"After, but not long. I know this because I thought I would not be troubled by this one again, but she came back. I tell her get out, and she gives me the rude finger. But the other girl pays, and she says, ‘Sorry,' in our language. This is polite, it is respectful. I remember her. She is dead?"

"Yes, they both are."

"She has good family?"

The polite girl, the good family, made a difference to him, Eve noted. And used it.

"Yes, she does. Good parents, a brother and a sister who looked for her, and hoped, all these years, to find her. She made a mistake, Mr. Pak, and shouldn't have died for it. Was anyone with them?"

"I can't say. I only remember they come in, before I close. I remember because this one gives me so much trouble, and this one is Korean, and is respectful."

"Did they talk to each other? Do you remember anything they said, if they were meeting anyone, going somewhere?"

"Girls chattering is like birds." He fluttered his fingers at his ears. "You hear only the notes."

"Okay, how about the others? Did they come in here?"

"I can't say," he repeated. "They come in, go out. These two only I remember."

"This one." She tapped a finger on Shelby's picture. "Who else did she come in with? Who did you see her hanging with?"

"Most times with little black girl, big"—he held out his hands to indicate a hefty build—"white girl. Skinny boy, too, brown boy. The black girl sings with a voice like..." He struggled, called out something in Korean to his now sulky counter boy.

"Angels."

"Yes, like angels. But she steals. They all steal. Are they all dead?"

"I don't know. Thanks for your help."

"You'll do what you said. More cop?"

"Yeah, I'll do what I said."

She walked out, strode over to the building, bypassed the police seal.

He'd connected two of the vics, the first two found together. Killed together? she speculated. One had been a resident, one hadn't. One a girl of good family, the other from an abusive home who'd churned her way through the system.

But they'd been together before they died, and right next door to where they'd been hidden away.

She stepped inside. Just stood.

Linh hooks up with Shelby after The Sanctuary moves out. A runaway, looking for some excitement before she goes home, a street kid who knows where to find the excitement. And the two of them end up all the way back here.

Because the building was empty, Eve thought.

Street girl says to runaway: I've got a place you can flop. We can hang, we can party.

Easy enough to get in. Maybe street girl had keys or passcodes, or a way she'd found before to sneak in and out.

Maybe Shelby's looking to score, Eve mused. Looking to barter the old bj for something good. Maybe Linh's just a mark to her—a mark with money—or maybe not. Eve doubted either one of them lived long enough to decide.

Was the killer already here, or did he come in after? Was it a meet or just bad luck?

He had to know Shelby, at least, would come back. So he watched, waited. Arranged?

Were they the first? DeWinter's magic might not be powerful enough for them to ever know which of the twelve died first, or last.

She heard the door behind her, turned, and pulled it open so an off-balance Peabody stumbled inside.

"Whoops. Hey." Cheeks pink from the hike from the subway, Peabody held out a takeout sack. "Got you half a spicy turkey sub. I had the other half, and it's pretty good. Hey, what happened?"

"About what?"

"About the bruise on your face."

"Oh, that. Little tussle with a rabidly enthusiastic private security skirt. I won."

"Congrats. I've got a med pack in my field kit."

"It's nothing."

"Well, I've got it if you want it. You got a drink. Good, 'cause I forgot that, and they're not lying about the spicy."

"Thanks. Did you get anything else?"

"You wanted chips or something? Oh, oh, the notifications and interviews. Not a lot. First the aunt—LaRue Freeman."

Peabody took out her notebook.

"I don't think she knows anything. The kid didn't live with her, but she filed the report when she found out—from her sister's neighbor—the kid had run away again. Mostly she just sounded tired and resigned."

"All right. I didn't expect much there."

"Carlie Bowen," Peabody continued. "The sister was a little shaken, but it felt like she'd already resigned herself she wasn't seeing Carlie alive again. They were tight, them-against-the-world kind of thing. She knew when Carlie poofed, something happened to her. The vic didn't really have friends, couldn't have anyone over, was embarrassed to hang when she'd have bruises or a busted lip half the time since she was in and out between foster and the home. She stayed with the sister every chance she got. Went to school, went to church, kept her head down."

"What church?"

"Ah..." She swiped the notebook to the next entry. "Different churches, according to the sister. She didn't want to draw any attention so she spread it around. The foster family she was with had a good rep, no violations. They reported she was doing well, and with some encouragement had joined the school band. Was learning to play the flute. She went to practice, left at about five-fifteen, went to the school library to study in this after-hours group, also approved."

Lowering the notebook, Peabody looked back at Eve. "Basically, Carlie was doing everything she could to have the normal, to keep it steady until she could move in permanently with her sister. She contacted the sister the night she went missing, asked if she could come over, got that cleared. She left the library just after seven on the evening of September eighteenth, according to the log-outs and wits at the time. And that was it."

"Just two days after Lupa didn't come home. This Carlie, she'd have walked by here on the way to the sister's?"

"It's the most logical route, yeah."

Eve nodded, absently pulled out the sub, took a bite. "I'll fill you in on Frester later. The guy who runs the market next door put Shelby and Linh together."

"He did? After fifteen years?"

"Shelby was a regular troublemaker over there. He remembered her. Linh came in with her—was a contrast. Polite, spoke to him in Korean. It puts them together here, and shortly after The Sanctuary closed."

She took another bite, enjoyed the heat, then washed it down with Pepsi. "Shelby brought Linh here, that's the way it plays. Ran into her on the street, hooked up. Picked up some stuff at the market. Linh paid, so maybe Shelby was after the soft touch there, but she brought her over here."

She wandered as she thought it through.

"It's empty. That's a thrill. Shelby knows the place, can show her around, tell her stories. It's echoey, dark. She'd have a flashlight or a light stick. No point in stumbling around in the dark. She's probably staying here, flopped here after she took off from the new place. It's a decent shelter, especially since nobody's here, since it's empty. It's all hers now, until she shares it. She probably likes having the company, this new girl who doesn't know shit about crap. Probably has some blankets, some bedding. She knows how to steal, how to take care of herself."

"It'd be kind of frosty at first," Peabody considered. "Like camping out."

"Everything's at first, everything's now. Tomorrow's for grownups. Linh didn't act out in the market. Could be she was starting to miss home. It feels good to have a friend right now, and a place off the street. Maybe she'll go home tomorrow. They'd come get her, take her home. They'd cry and they'd yell, but they'd come. But she doesn't want to look lame in front of her new friend. She'll just hang awhile in the spooky old building."

Eve started up the steps. "He could already be here. Shelby knows him. She's not afraid of him. Maybe she barters sex for drugs with him. Maybe they get high. It's a way to pass the time, have some fun, show off for the new girl."

"It's a way to tranq them."

"A little something in the zoner or whatever he gives them. Just a little something extra. Then they're compliant. Not unconscious, what's the point in that? Where's the thrill in that? But just stoned, limp, stupid. Undress them—one at a time—do what he wants to do. Fill the tub. Warm water, cold might shock them straight enough to put up a fight. Under they go. They might struggle a little, it's instinct, but not enough.

"Sit down over there like the tub was still there."

"Huh?" Peabody's eyes widened, then blinked twice. "What?"

"In the pretend tub, I want to try something."

"I don't wanna get in the pretend tub."

"In," Eve ordered, dropped her sandwich back in the bag, set it and the tube aside.

"Oh, man. I'm not stripping. Even if you hurt me."

"I don't want you naked, I just want you in the damn tub."

Grumbling, Peabody sat between the old rough-in pipes.

"I think he tied their hands and feet, but not tight. Just enough to keep them from kicking around. Then all he has to do is—"

She took Peabody's wrists in one hand, pressed the other on her head.

"You'd go right under, without any real traction to pull up again. Holding your arms up like this, you slide down. Too woozy to push hard enough with your bound feet to surface. From here he can watch your face as the panic cuts through. You can scream, but from here it's sort of soft, almost musical. Then your eyes fix, and that's the moment, the moment he knows it's done."

She released Peabody's arms, picked up her sandwich bag again.

"It's creepy. Seriously creepy." With some rush, Peabody pushed to her feet.

"Carlie went to churches. Lupa went to church. This was sort of a faith-based place, right? Frester all about turning it over to a higher power and all that. Bad girls."

"Who, the vics?"

"That's what Pak—the market guy—called them. Bad girls, bad boys. Isn't there that whole thing about washing sins away?"

"You mean like baptism?"

"Maybe." Frowning, she studied the scarred floor, the broken pipes, imagined the old white tub. "They dunk you, right?"

"I think, some religions do the dunk. Free-Agers aren't into that kind of thing. You're thinking some twisted ritual?"

"It's an angle. If you're going to hide the bodies anyway, there are lots of ways to kill. He doesn't experiment from what we can tell. No broken bones, no bashing, no strangulation. Just a slide under the water. It's almost gentle."

She took another bite of turkey, paced around. "It doesn't seem like he keeps them for long. He has choices. He could drug them, bind them, keep them for days, playing with them, torturing them, entertaining himself. Think of McQueen."

"I'd rather not. Sick bastard."

"He kept all those girls chained up, weeks, months, some even longer. He had a high old time with them. But this guy doesn't do anything like that. This is his place. Are they his girls when they come here? His to cleanse and kill?"

"I think they drowned witches."

Puzzled, Eve stopped pacing. "Witches?"

"I mean women they decided were witches, back in the Dark Ages and stuff. And Salem, like that. I think they hanged them, burned them, too—depending. But they drowned them. They loaded them down with stones, tossed them in the water. If they sank, they weren't witches—just dead. If they didn't sink, they were witches and I guess they'd have killed them some other way—the hanging or burning. Only women just drowned."

"Bad luck. That's interesting. It was like a test?"

"I guess. Sick, ignorant, but yeah, like a test."

"That's interesting," Eve repeated. "And another angle. If they were evil—witches we'll say—they wouldn't drown when he held them under. Or, alternatively, if they were pure enough they wouldn't drown. Hmm. All sorts of angles. Let's go another round with the Joneses."

Eve rolled half her half sub back in the takeout bag.

"You're not eating that."

"It's big. It's good, but it's big." Eve held it out. "You want it?"

Like a woman warding off evil, Peabody turned her head, held her hand in front of it. "Stop it, put it away. I'll eat it otherwise. Find a recycler before I do."

"The vic's sister makes a good sandwich." On her way down, Eve polished off the Pepsi. "Let me tell you about Lemont Frester," she began.

···

Matron Shivitz wore black, and dabbed at tired eyes. "I couldn't sleep, not a wink, all night." She sniffled, dabbed. "Thinking of those girls, those poor girls. Have you found out who they are—were?"

"We've begun identifying them. We'd like to speak to Mr. Jones and Ms. Jones."

"Ms. Jones is off campus. One of the boys cut himself while on kitchen duty, so she took him to urgent care for treatment. She shouldn't be much longer. Mr. Jones is leading a round table. I'm afraid he'll be about twenty minutes more. If it's an emergency—"

"We can wait. How well did you know Shelby Ann Stubacker?"

"Shelby Ann, Shelby Ann... Oh! Shelby, yes, yes." Shivitz lifted both hands, shook them in the air. "A challenge. She presented a constant challenge, always testing the boundaries. Still, a personable girl when she wanted to be, and bright. I remember being relieved—I'm not ashamed to say—when they were able to place her in foster care."

"I need the documentation on that. The when and where and who. I contacted Ms. Jones to let her know."

"Oh, dear, she must've forgotten to tell me, with Zeek cutting himself, and the argument. Two of the girls had to be separated and—"

"Matron. Let's stick with Shelby Stubacker, foster care and when, how, where."

"Yes, yes. My goodness, so long ago." She patted her bubble of hair. "I seem to recall, yes, I'm sure it was during our transition. We were moving in here when her paperwork came through. I wouldn't remember where she was placed, even if I'd known at the time. Is it important?"

"It's important because there's no record of her being placed anywhere."

"But she certainly was." Shivitz smiled patiently, as Eve imagined she did at residents who required careful explanations.

"I distinctly remember speaking with Ms. Jones about it, and helped process Shelby myself. We always send our children with a going-home pack of books, a house pin, an affirmation disc and so forth. I put it together myself. I always tried to do that, and always added a container of cookies. Just a little treat."

"Who picked her up?"

"I... Someone from CPS, I'm sure. Or one of us took her to her new family. I don't know. I'm not certain I was here, I mean right here, when she left. I don't understand."

"I want to see your copy of her paperwork on the court order, the release papers."

"Oh my, that may take just a little doing. It was years ago, as I said, and during the upheaval of the move. I'll have to look for it."

"Yeah, you will."

The smile turned into a firm, flat line. "No need to be testy, young lady. We keep all records, but it would be archived. Fifteen-year-old records aren't something we have at our fingertips. Why would we when..."

Eve watched her put it together, saw the mild insult turn to sick realization. "Shelby? She was one of the... One of them?"

"I need to see the paperwork."

"I'll find it!" She jogged off on her sensible shoes, shouting for an assistant to pull up the archives.

"Get an earful, Quilla?" Eve asked without turning around.

Quiet as a snake, Quilla glided down the stairs.

"I'm a challenge, too."

"Good for you."

"Hey, somebody punched you in the face."

"That's right. Now she's in a cage thinking about how much time she'll get for assaulting a police officer."

"In the face is a bitch," Quilla commented with the casual knowledge of one who'd been there often enough to know. "So anyway, everybody's talking about the dead girls. The wardens closed themselves up in the office for like an hour."

"Wardens?"

"They might as well be. It's like half past zero around here with Matron crying and everybody has to make these black bands for their arms even though we didn't know any of the dead girls, and they've been dead already forever. Then we're stuck with extra meditation so we can help their spirits cross over."

"Cross over where?"

Quilla circled her finger toward the ceiling. "Or wherever. I fucking hate meditation. It's boring. Plus I heard Mr. Jones say—" She broke off, glanced toward the stairs.

"Say what?"

"Hey, Ms. Brigham," Quilla said.

"Hi, Quilla." Seraphim appeared at the top of the stairs. "Lieutenant, Detective," she said as she continued down. "Is anyone helping you?"

"Matron Shivitz is getting us some files."

"We're all a little off our stride today." She stroked a hand down Quilla's shoulder. "Quilla, aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"Maybe. I saw them hanging here and didn't want them to have to just stand around."

"That's very polite and thoughtful. I've got it from here, you go on to class."

"Okay." She slanted Eve a look before she scurried off.

"She's curious," Seraphim began. "Most of the kids are. It's all more mysterious and exciting to them than tragic. It's a normal reaction for the age. Though I'm told a couple of the more sensitive girls had nightmares last night."

"You didn't tell the matron about Shelby being identified."

"No. I didn't tell anyone, was I supposed to? I'm sorry," she continued before Eve could speak. "I'm so used to keeping a confidence, I just kept it to myself."

"That's fine. It's not your job to notify. I was just curious why you hadn't."

"You came to see me at my grandmother's. To me, that equaled what we spoke of as in confidence."

"Got it."

"And it's the same reason—that trained circumspection—that had me hesitating to ask if I can get you a cold pack for that cheek. It looks painful."

"It's okay. Thanks anyway."

"All right. Lieutenant, I wanted to thank you for looking for Leah Craine, for finding her."

"Roarke did the finding."

"I know, but it meant a great deal to me to know she's well, happy. I contacted her. I couldn't decide if I should, but Gamma and Jack—my fiancé—convinced me. I'm so glad they did. We're going to have lunch next week."

"That's nice."

"It feels nice." Her smile bloomed all the way to her eyes. "I should tell you we spoke about the girls. Just briefly, but she'd heard about them, too. She did tell me she'd never gone back to The Sanctuary when she ran away again. She was afraid to go near it, in case her father looked for her there."

She paused a moment, glanced toward the stairs just in case. "I think we knew—but didn't say, either of us—that if she had, she might be among those girls. Instead, she has work she loves, a man she loves, and her first baby on the way."

"You could tell her if she remembers anything from her time here that may apply, to contact me."

"We talked about that, too, a little. I gave her your information, but as I think I told you, she really kept her head down in those days."

"Okay. If you've got a minute now, we have more identifications."

"Let's sit down. The children should all be in class or activity at this time of day—including Quilla." She glanced at the stairs again, down both hallways before she took one of the seats near Shivitz's station, accepted the printouts.

"God, they're so young. Were so young. I don't remember these girls. They don't seem familiar. Do you know what happened to them, to all of them?"

"The investigation's ongoing." Eve drew out her 'link when it signaled, studied the image and text. Switching it to image only, she held it out to Seraphim. "What about this girl?"

"Another? I hate to think... Yes! Oh, this is Mikki—I told you about her yesterday. Shelby, Mikki, T-Bone. Mikki... I don't remember her full name."

"Mikki Wendall."

"Yes, that's it. But she was placed back in the parental home. I remember that. I remember because it was right after they'd moved here—or a week or so, I'm not sure. I remember because I came with my grandmother to see this new place. I was so nervous," she murmured with a small smile. "Seeing everyone again, and I heard—DeLonna told me—both Shelby and Mikki were gone. Shelby to foster, Mikki back home."

She'd seen the Wendall paperwork, Eve thought now. But no Missing Persons report had been filed on Mikki by the custodial parent. "Peabody, get the data on Mikki Wendall. Do you know if she had contact with Shelby after they left The Sanctuary?"

"I'm sorry, I don't. I was working hard to turn that corner, to rebuild myself, to keep myself straight so I could stay with my grandmother. I didn't keep in touch with any of the girls here."

With a last look at the printouts, she handed them back to Peabody. "I wouldn't have with Shelby in any case. She was, and it sounds harsh now, but she was trouble. I'd had enough trouble. Mikki was—it's easier to see now with adult hindsight and training—she was needy, so wanted to fit in. She'd have done anything for Shelby's approval, and did. I'm not sure she ever had a friend before Shelby and DeLonna, and T-Bone."

"We found it!" Shivitz bustled back in, waving a disc and hard copy. "Oh, Seraphim, I'm just that upset. It all seems like too much."

"It's a difficult time, Matron." Seraphim rose, wrapped Shivitz in a hug. "Difficult and incomprehensible. But the children depend on us."

"I know it, I know it. One was Shelby Stubacker. You must remember her. She was a hard one to forget."

"Yes, I know."

"But she was gone," Shivitz insisted, and pushed the documentation at Eve. "She'd been placed in foster care. It was after you left, Seraphim, and right in the middle of the move. In fact, the paperwork still has The Sanctuary information."

"Uh-huh." Eve studied the hard copies, shook her head. "It's a half-decent fake."

"Fake!" Shivitz bristled with outrage. "What do you mean fake? That's absurd."

"So is spelling borough b-u-r-r-o-w. One of those spell-check errors, I'd guess. A couple of other things, but that's the big tell."

"Let me see that." Shivitz snatched it away, peered down, and went dead pale. "Oh dear God. Oh Lord. I don't understand this. I don't know how this could happen."

"Sit down now. Sit down and catch your breath." Seraphim eased Shivitz into a chair.

"How did the paperwork come in?" Eve demanded.

"I don't know. I honestly don't know. It must just be a mistake. Can't it just be a clerical mistake?"

"I don't think so."

Seraphim glanced back as doors began to open, voices carried down the stairs, clumping feet sounded above.

"Can we take this in Mr. Jones's office? I'll go find him. He needs to know, he may remember something."

"Let's do that." She signaled Peabody. Her partner nodded, crossed toward the office while she continued to talk on her 'link.

"What do you remember?" Eve asked Shivitz.

"I just don't, not really. We were carrying boxes and tables and chairs, and so many things. Inside, upstairs, downstairs. Somebody told me—I'm not sure who—Shelby was going into a foster home. I remember thinking we might be able to start off more peacefully in our new home."

"What seems to be the problem?" All business, Nash Jones clipped into the room, eased the door closed.

"The paperwork removing Shelby Ann Stubacker from your care and putting her in foster care is a forgery."

"I'm sure that can't be." He took the paperwork, carried it around to his desk, sat. "It certainly looks to be in order. I'm not sure what you..."

"Caught it?"

He leaned forward, pushing at his hair as he studied it again."How did this get through? This isn't my signature. Matron, Seraphim, it's not my signature."

Seraphim moved closer, read over his shoulder. "It's not. It's close, but it's not your signature."

"We can and will have that verified," Eve told him, "but for now, what the hell happened?"

"I have no idea. Let me think. Let me think." He shut his eyes, breathed slow and deep in what Eve assumed was some form of meditation. Another minute of that would, she knew, piss her off. But he stopped, opened his eyes.

"I remember. Matron—not you, dear," he said to Shivitz. "Matron Orwin telling me Shelby's paperwork was on my desk in my office, which had yet to be organized. We were still moving in—we had abbreviated classes and group, we'd divided up staff and residents into teams, so everyone had a part in making up our new space. We were excited, all of us—the newness, the larger space, excited, grateful."

"We were." Shivitz twisted her fingers together as she nodded. "So excited and grateful."

"We were so busy," Nash continued, "but it was a good confusion, if you understand me. I said something to Philly about it—about Shelby, that is. We discussed it as we worked. Both of us had some concerns, but we are, after all, only a temporary haven. Later, Philly and I had a bite to eat in our new quarters—a jumble, but still ours. She mentioned she'd found Mikki Wendall—she and Shelby were friends—she'd found her crying in her room. Because Shelby was gone. We talked about what we could do to make the transition easier for Mikki. I assumed that Philly had taken care of the transfer, but this is an attempt at my signature, not hers."

"You didn't see her leave, didn't connect with the CPS rep who should have escorted her?"

"No. I assumed Philly had, or Matron. Or Montclair. Our brother was with us then. Did I ask about the paperwork at some point?" Still pale, he rubbed at his temple. "I must have."

"I think Matron gave it to me to file," Shivitz told him. "That would have been the usual procedure. We were trying to get all the files and comps in order, and I must have filed it. I never really looked at it."

"We'll need to speak to your sister."

"Yes, yes. Let me contact her, tell her to come back right away. There were so many people," Jones murmured as he turned to his 'link. "All the staff, volunteers, the e-company who'd come in to set up the equipment, all the children. It was so busy, so happy. Hopeful."

Eve imagined Shelby had had her own hopes—and reaching for them had ended them.