“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
She leads me down the hall, takes a right, and stops outside a small office with a glass window and a counter.
“Maybe I should call someone to sit with you while you wait,” she says, suddenly realizing she’s about to leave a complete stranger unattended.
“No need,” I assure her easily. “You’re going through enough trouble already. I’ll just reply to a few work emails while I wait.”
“It might take some time to track Mother Superior down. On days like this, she likes to walk around and make sure everything is in order.”
“Take all the time you need,” I reply, my winning smile kicking up a notch.
She blushes faintly and nods. “Alright, then. I’ll be right back.”
“No rush.” And I mean that.
The longer she’s gone, the better my chances of getting some answers.
I count to ten under my breath before rising from the uncomfortable wooden chair. After checking the hall for stragglers, I vault quietly over the counter.
The office is cramped but organized, with neatly labeled filing cabinets along the wall. I try several drawers before I find the right one. Student Records. My pulse spikes when I flip through the O’s, until I reach a folder with the inscription—O’Malley, Frances.My hands tremble as I slide the file free. And there it is, everything laid out for me in black and white.
Name: Frances O’Malley.
Gender: Female.
Date of birth: July 15th, 2007
Custodial guardian: Sister Margaretta O’Malley, St. Mary’s Orphanage director.
Enrollment: At Sacred Heart since kindergarten.
That first page alone hits me like a punch. However, it’s Sister Margaretta’s notes in Kira’s file that really enlighten me on the life she’s had without her family.
‘Infant brought to St. Mary’s Church, at an estimated age of three months. No identifying documents. Medical evaluation suggests a healthy female. Named Frances by Mother Superior. Given surname O’Malley. Date of birth assigned in honor of Saint Frances.’
My chest tightens so sharply that I have to steady myself against the cabinet. An orphan. Left at a church. No family. No records. Just like Katya’s daughter would’ve been if my sister were desperate enough to hide her from the evil men who were chasing her.
I keep reading, needing to find out more.
‘No family contact across the years. The only item found with the child was an engraved gold bracelet.’
A gold bracelet. My grandmother’s bracelet. The same one she gave Katya before fleeing to America.
There are several pages, with dozens of entries, from academic notes to behavior warnings. The last one in particular catches my attention.
‘Recent incident: Student punched Luciano Romano in Sister Agnes’s class in front of their peers. Assigned tutoring with the same student to encourage humility for one and anger management for the other.’
I almost laugh. Of course she would punch Luciano. The cocky kid seems like he’d benefit from a good punch or two. And from what I just witnessed in the parking lot, their forced proximity worked in a way neither of them could’ve expected.
Hmm. I’m not sure how I should feel about Kira being in a relationship with Lucky. For the second time today, an unexpected flicker of protectiveness hits me like a tidal wave.But judging by the smile he put on her face, I can’t muster any real hatred for the kid.
I continue to flick through her file, my breath stuttering when I come across a school picture clipped to the back of the file—Frances in her plaid uniform, blue eyes bright, hair pulled back neatly, smiling in a way that punches straight through my ribs.
It’s her. It’s Kira. Of that, I have no remaining doubt.
I slide the photo free and tuck it into the inner pocket of my coat. Then I return the file, close the cabinet, vault back over the counter, and head for the door.
Once I’m sure the hallway is clear, I slip out, hoping to be gone before the nun comes back with Mother Superior—or worse, before I run into any of the Romano siblings. But as I rush around the corner, something soft slams into me. A box of Christmas decorations bursts open across the floor, red ribbons and a stack of snowflake cutouts scattering around my feet.
