“It never is,” the woman replied softly. She hesitated, then scribbled a name and address
on a slip of paper. “If anyone might have the rest of the story, it’s Sister Helen. She worked there for decades. Lives at St. Margaret’s retirement home now. Tell her Mildred sent you. She might listen.”
A lead. Finally. Sofia had subtly questioned several people in town, and every one of them offered the same vague, dismissive answers, which only strengthened her resolve. When she asked about the workers and the girls who had lived at St. Agnes, they pretended they had no idea what she meant. Even the town’s sheriff stopped her one afternoon, casually inquiring about her purpose in town and hinting that her questions were making people uncomfortable. The encounter had shocked her, and she remained unsettled for hours afterward.
Sofia took the paper. “Mildred?”
The woman gave a faint smile. “Just tell her.”
Sofia nodded. “Thank you.”
Almost thirty minutes later, Sofia pulled her rental into a parking space and stepped out of the car. St. Margaret’s Retirement Home was a low, beige-brick building with manicured shrubs and a silent, airlocked entrance. The air inside was a sterile mix of antiseptic, overcooked vegetables, and faint floral spray.
A young receptionist with a tight smile looked up from her computer. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Sister Helen,” Sofia said.
“Are you family?”
“No. She knew my mother.”
“I’m sorry, we can’t allow non-family visitors without authorization.” The woman started to turn away.
“Please, just tell her someone’s here about Katya Ivanova. From St. Agnes. Mildred from the library sent me.”
The receptionist froze, her professional smile vanishing. She glanced down the hall, then back at Sofia, her expression uneasy. After a long pause, she nodded. “Have a seat. I’ll ask if she’s accepting visitors.”
Sofia tucked that reaction away. She waited, pulse loud in the sterile quiet. When the woman returned, her face was unreadable.
“She’ll see you,” she said. “Sign the log. Common room. Last door on the right. You will see her by the window. She wears a soft yellow sweater.”
“Thank you.”
The hallway stretched long under harsh fluorescent light. Sofia’s steps echoed softly until she reached the common room—a tomb of quiet activity. A muted television flickered in one corner.
Near a window, an elderly woman sat in a high-backed chair. Her posture was straight, her white hair pinned in a severe bun.She was the only person in a yellow sweater. Taking a deep breath, Sofia walked over. The lady’s eyes were sharp, alert, and untrusting—following Sofia’s approach.
“Sister Helen?”
The nun’s voice was thin but firm. “Do I know you?”
“No. But you may have known my mother, Katya Ivanova. She lived at St. Agnes. May I sit and talk with you about her for a few minutes?”
Silence fell, heavy and knowing. Sister Helen’s expression didn’t change, but her hands tightened faintly in her lap. Sofia sat in the chair closest to the nun. “I found her diary,” she said quietly. “My mother never spoke in any detail about the orphanage, but she was running from someone. I was hoping you could help me understand her past and what she was so afraid of.”
Sister Helen exhaled slowly. “Your mother was brave. But some truths don’t want to be uncovered, child.”
“Something bad happened to her, and she was hurt,” Sofia pressed. “A man was responsible. He might still be out there.”
The nun’s gaze drifted toward the window. “Men like him don’t disappear. Not really. So heisstill out there.”
“You remember him?” Sofia asked.
“Remembering and speaking are two different things,” Sister Helen murmured. “Some names still bring trouble.”
“I need to know who he was. Please, help me.”
The nun’s voice dropped, her eyes clouded with memory. “Your mother wasterrified. I saw it so many times in her eyes. She never said his name, but I saw the way she flinched when certain men came around. They weren’t just powerful; they made people disappear. I should have protected my girls better.”
