room.
He narrowed his eyes at her. He did.
She was late, that had been bad enough. She’d arrived at the Brannigan just before ten, counting her blessings that Ms. Finch was out, reassured she’d never know how late Ella arrived. She stashed her bag of copies under her desk, having decided, in a flash of defiance on the subway, not to shred them, but to take them home. They were evidence, of something, and who knew what might happen to the real paperwork?
But then on her desk, a scrawled note from someone, almost illegible, the words tumbling to the edge of the page.
Meeting. Mr. B’s office. NOW . Hurry.
Now Ella stood behind Collins Munson, trying to make herself invisible. A dozen staffers were crowded into the ornate room, maybe more, so maybe no one noticed when she came in. She pressed her back against a lofty bookshelf, feeling the spines of the leather volumes against hers.
“As you might be aware, the police visited us at the Brannigan this morning,” Brannigan continued.
Ella felt the blood drain from her face, she really did, and her knees went so jelly she almost fell against a big upholstered chair. Catching herself, she knocked into Collins Munson’s navy blazer and pointy elbows.
“Sorry,” she whispered. Mr. Munson glared down at her, frowning even more than usual behind his horned-rims before turning his attention back to the front of the room.
“It is with much sadness that I tell you…” Brannigan paused, looked at the floor, then looked up at them. “… the police informed me that sometime last night, our dear Lillian Finch passed away.”
Oh sweet mother of … What could have happened? She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t. Maybe this was her payback. Maybe God telling her she should not have interfered in what was not her business. Ella felt the fear and the guilt creep up the back of her neck and tighten her throat.
Ms. Finch was dead? Ella felt the scream, threatening, but knew she had to stay silent, had to think. Not now, she thought. Hail Mary, full of grace.…
“I don’t have many answers for you, my dear colleagues, but if you have any questions,” Brannigan finished, “I shall try to answer.”
Yes, I have questions, Ella yearned to say. Why had Ms. Finch made the Call to the wrong woman? Did she know what she’d done? But now was not the time to ask. Maybe that time would never come.
Collins Munson cleared his throat. Ella looked up at him. So did everyone else. Munson, who “had the keys” as Lillian always put it, to the History and Records department, might be the only one who dared ask the first question. Or any question at all. He’d been around forever, since before Ella arrived three years ago. He had a parking space of his own. He’d placed hundreds of children, Ella knew. Reunited hundreds of families. Kind of a legend.
“Mr. Brannigan? Do the police know”—Munson cleared his throat again, his words catching in grief—“how she died?”
“Ah, Collins. This is difficult for all of us.” Brannigan shook his head. “The authorities may know. I asked, of course. But they did not choose to inform me, and insisted they had to end our conversation and continue their investigation. Please cooperate with them, all of you, as they do. And please keep me informed if they contact you.”
How she died? How she died? Ella’s mind raced, calculating. Of course, well, of course, that was the question. The police? Came here ? If Ms. Finch had died of natural causes, that’s what they called it on her TV shows, it wouldn’t have been the police who came. Would it?
What if Ms. Finch knew she’d … made a terrible mistake? What if she couldn’t live with it? Would the police have come to tell them that? If she’d … killed herself? But that was a mortal sin. Lillian would never—
“In closing, let me acknowledge, we shall all miss her,” Brannigan was saying. “But we must continue our good work, and know she would have wanted it that
He narrowed his eyes at her. He did.
She was late, that had been bad enough. She’d arrived at the Brannigan just before ten, counting her blessings that Ms. Finch was out, reassured she’d never know how late Ella arrived. She stashed her bag of copies under her desk, having decided, in a flash of defiance on the subway, not to shred them, but to take them home. They were evidence, of something, and who knew what might happen to the real paperwork?
But then on her desk, a scrawled note from someone, almost illegible, the words tumbling to the edge of the page.
Meeting. Mr. B’s office. NOW . Hurry.
Now Ella stood behind Collins Munson, trying to make herself invisible. A dozen staffers were crowded into the ornate room, maybe more, so maybe no one noticed when she came in. She pressed her back against a lofty bookshelf, feeling the spines of the leather volumes against hers.
“As you might be aware, the police visited us at the Brannigan this morning,” Brannigan continued.
Ella felt the blood drain from her face, she really did, and her knees went so jelly she almost fell against a big upholstered chair. Catching herself, she knocked into Collins Munson’s navy blazer and pointy elbows.
“Sorry,” she whispered. Mr. Munson glared down at her, frowning even more than usual behind his horned-rims before turning his attention back to the front of the room.
“It is with much sadness that I tell you…” Brannigan paused, looked at the floor, then looked up at them. “… the police informed me that sometime last night, our dear Lillian Finch passed away.”
Oh sweet mother of … What could have happened? She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t. Maybe this was her payback. Maybe God telling her she should not have interfered in what was not her business. Ella felt the fear and the guilt creep up the back of her neck and tighten her throat.
Ms. Finch was dead? Ella felt the scream, threatening, but knew she had to stay silent, had to think. Not now, she thought. Hail Mary, full of grace.…
“I don’t have many answers for you, my dear colleagues, but if you have any questions,” Brannigan finished, “I shall try to answer.”
Yes, I have questions, Ella yearned to say. Why had Ms. Finch made the Call to the wrong woman? Did she know what she’d done? But now was not the time to ask. Maybe that time would never come.
Collins Munson cleared his throat. Ella looked up at him. So did everyone else. Munson, who “had the keys” as Lillian always put it, to the History and Records department, might be the only one who dared ask the first question. Or any question at all. He’d been around forever, since before Ella arrived three years ago. He had a parking space of his own. He’d placed hundreds of children, Ella knew. Reunited hundreds of families. Kind of a legend.
“Mr. Brannigan? Do the police know”—Munson cleared his throat again, his words catching in grief—“how she died?”
“Ah, Collins. This is difficult for all of us.” Brannigan shook his head. “The authorities may know. I asked, of course. But they did not choose to inform me, and insisted they had to end our conversation and continue their investigation. Please cooperate with them, all of you, as they do. And please keep me informed if they contact you.”
How she died? How she died? Ella’s mind raced, calculating. Of course, well, of course, that was the question. The police? Came here ? If Ms. Finch had died of natural causes, that’s what they called it on her TV shows, it wouldn’t have been the police who came. Would it?
What if Ms. Finch knew she’d … made a terrible mistake? What if she couldn’t live with it? Would the police have come to tell them that? If she’d … killed herself? But that was a mortal sin. Lillian would never—
“In closing, let me acknowledge, we shall all miss her,” Brannigan was saying. “But we must continue our good work, and know she would have wanted it that
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