“I’m afraid there werea lotof bad things that went on here once upon a time.”
“It sounded like this was somethingshedid …”
“Yourmom? Do something bad?” she asks. “Oh, I can’t imagine that … I have sympathy for any girl who finds herself here, but we have had plenty of troublemakers. Your mom was never one of them. Let me check her file. If there was an incident, it would be in there.” She stands and heads to a long row of wooden file cabinets on the opposite side of the room. “Ten years ago, we put everything online. But the older files are still here.”
“Thank you,” I say as she pulls open a drawer.
“Horning, Horning. Looks like someone decided theHs came after theIs. Here it is. Oh, that’s …” Her voice drifts as she turns around, flipping open an empty folder. “The records must have been … misplaced.”
“Misplaced?” I ask, stepping closer, even though there’s nothing to see. “Does that happen a lot?”
She stares down at the empty folder for a long time. “No. ButDirector Daitch … there were things he wanted to go away. And so away they went.”
“What about someone named Silas who used to work here?” I ask. “I know that it was a long time ago, but his name is kind of—”
“I know Silas.” She lifts her gaze to mine, holds it for a moment before looking away. “There were times I worried that working here might be, in a way, condoning the things that went on. But then I thought maybe leaving would be worse. At least if I was here, there’d be one person the girls could go to … I did make an anonymous report to the police more than once. Nothing was ever done. They’d call, ask some questions, decide everything was okay … Daitch was friends with everyone who was anyone—police chief, mayor, head of the hospital. Gave him way too much power, you ask me.”
“Do you maybe have a phone number or a forwarding address for Silas? I need to try to find him.”
“Oh, you don’t need an address,” she says. “Silas is here. Upstairs right now, as a matter of fact. The new director is better. He did clean house, fired a whole bunch of the old-timers. But Silas and a few others threatened to sue for wrongful termination. I guess the lawyers must have decided he had a case, because here he still is.”
Outside the second-floor community room, where Rose has determined that Silas should be supervising the art club, I stare at the closed doors for a moment, listening to the voices on the other side. I think of what Detective Wilson said:You think this person will be happy if and when you do find them?I didn’t in a million years think I would; I guess that’s the bottom line. But now Silas is right there.
The room on the other side of the doors is nearly the size of my high school cafeteria, with the same linoleum floor, highceilings, and institutional chill. But it’s way dingier here—dull lighting, a grayish film covering everything. Two dozen teenage girls are seated at the round tables at the far end of the room, the low couches nearest the doors empty. Standing at a set of doors opposite are a grim-faced man and woman, mid-twenties maybe, only distinguishable from the teenagers because of their gray uniforms. They glance my way, then go back to talking. There’s a much older man seated at a table with the girls, chatting as he draws. He’s a grandfatherly hipster type, wearing one of those cable-knit fisherman’s sweaters, jeans cuffed high, stylish slip-on sneakers, and a plaid scarf tied expertly at his neck. The girls with him are laughing, seemingly hanging on his every word.
Silas? Not at all what I expected. But he’s the only person who seems old enough.
“Who the hell are you?” The voice behind me is deep and unfriendly.Shit.
“Oh, hi,” I say as I turn. “I’m sorry, I’m a friend of Silas’s.” I gesture in the direction of the art table.
I’m now facing a much older, much more intimidating man, also in a gray uniform. He’s taller than my dad—six foot three, maybe even four—and heavy with muscle. His face has a weathered, beaten quality, including a noticeable scar on his right cheek, and he’s older than his body would suggest—sixties maybe.
“A friend of Silas’s, huh?” He looks me up and down, eyes lingering inappropriately in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I glance in the direction of the woman in the gray uniform by the doors. She’s looking right at me, her face tight, and I think,Phew, she’s going to help.But then she turns away; I’m on my own here.
“Yes,” I say. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat of him. He smells medicinal, like menthol. He definitely could be Silas. He’s old enough. “Unless … I’m guessing you’re …”
“What do you want?”
“I know about your texts,” I manage to say. This is my chance, my only one.
“What texts?”
“To Kat McHugh—you were blackmailing her, and now she’s missing.”
He glares at me. “Katwho? What the fuck are you even talking about?”
“I mean Katrina Horning—that was her name when she used to live here. Like thirty years ago. She was adopted away by a rich lady, Gladys Greene,aftershe reported you like a dozen times for messing with her? And then, all these years later, she starts getting angry texts looking for money. She’s my mom. She lookedjustlike me?”
He squints at me, then grunts in recognition.
“I didn’t send any fucking text. But I should have gotten paid for keeping my mouth shut after what she did.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, like I don’t believe him.
“I don’t know exactly. I didn’twantto fucking know.” He laughs. “Daitch was freaking out and so I did as I was told. Because I wanted to keep my job. Tossed a bunch of bloody clothes. And Katrina Horning walked out of here a couple days later, safe and sound. So, wasn’therblood … Wait, why am I even talking to you?” He motions to the doors. “Get the hell out of here before I throw you out.”
