The 411 operator had told her Lillian Finch’s address was 27 Margolin. No car in that driveway. Porch light on, and some interior lights. No crime scene tape. Maybe the cops had taken it down.
Where the hell was Ella?
She eased into the parking spot behind what must be Ella’s car, grabbed her cell phone, punched in the number. A van was parked way up Margolin, but otherwise the street was deserted. That’s because the smart people were inside.
The phone rang, and rang again, and then went to voice mail.
“This is Ella Gavin. I’m sorry I can’t…”
Jane clonked her head against the back of her seat as the phone message ran out. She ignored the beep, hung up. Now what?
Then she saw the smoke.
65
“Why did we come back here, a-gain?” Kellianne wanted to go home. It was starting to snow a little, freezing, and the new ’bilia she’d snagged was burning a hole in her tote bag. After the boys finished inside, cleaning or whatever, they’d packed up the empty plastic containers, one of the solvent buckets, and the smaller drop cloth, and shoved it all into the back of the van. They’d started for home, driven a few blocks, yammering the whole way, and Kellianne figured they were out of there. Then Kev doubled back, and now, for some stupid reason, they were parked up the street from that woman’s house.
“Are you listening to me? Yoo-hoo, in the front seat?”
“Stuff it, little girl.” Kev didn’t even turn around. “We don’t have to tell you a thing.”
“Yeah.” Keefer didn’t look at her, either. “Just shut up and think about-”
“She doesn’t think,” Kev said. “Doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
They were staring out the windshield. Laughing. At her.
So dumb. And so wrong. She did too think. Right now she was thinking she needed to get home and look at her stuff. She sure couldn’t do it in the backseat of the stupid van, even though her brothers were glued to the window. Looking at what?
“You see anything?” Keefer said.
“Nope.” Kev buzzed down his window, stuck his nose out, and sniffed.
Maybe he was trying to catch a clean breath. The car was so hazy with weed and chemicals it was making her high just sitting there. She thought again about the contents of her tote bag. This time she hadn’t held back. It was kind of-stealing. She didn’t like the word. But again. If family members hadn’t come to take the stuff, maybe no one wanted it. She bet no one even knew what the dead woman had in her bedroom drawers, so it wouldn’t be missed. Yes. She was right. It was all fine.
A couple of pearl necklaces, a silver bracelet, some earrings-old lady clip-ons, but who cared-and a semicool gold chain. She glanced at the two doofus boys, but they were still focused front, so she rummaged into the bag and pulled out the chain. Yanking her parka open, she fastened the clasp around her neck, then patted it into place, feeling the weight of the metal through her T-shirt. She didn’t have to sell everything. She’d put the gold cross she’d taken from the old guy’s keys on this chain. It was okay for her to have nice things. About time, too.
“Can’t smell anything, either,” Kev said, closing his window. “Should be soon, though.”
“What should be soon? What are we doing? I’m not kidding, you guys are the weirdest…”
And then she looked up and saw-was it smoke?
Not in Lillian’s desk. Not in the files. Darn. Ella slid the second file cabinet drawer back into place and surveyed Lillian’s tiny home office, hands on hips. Walnut-stained bookshelves, desk, rolling swivel chair, tweed love seat, rectangular coffee table covered with a flowery cloth, canvas magazine rack. No windows.
Lucky the living room light had been on, and back here, the office light, too. At first she’d worried, but then decided maybe the police didn’t want burglars to believe the house was vacant. Made sense.
She’d been here a couple of times, but never thought about where Lillian might hide something. She sniffed, trying to ignore the funny smell. Ella’s eyes were smarting a little, maybe because she was so nervous. Every second it seemed like she heard a weird noise. But that couldn’t be. She was alone.
Which reminded her. Jane would be arriving soon. She had to hurry. She could call Jane and find out how soon, she supposed. But she’d left her phone in the car. Maybe use Lillian’s? If it hadn’t been disconnected? She picked up the receiver of the black desk phone. No dial tone. Jane’s number was in her cell, anyway, not in her head. Better to just hurry.
She wrinkled her nose. Musty or something. Well, the house had been closed since… oh. Ella’s arms went goose bumps. Was this what death smelled like? Was she smelling death?
Her eyes widened. Heart raced. It felt like the walls of the little office were closing in on her. She should go. Leave. Now. Nothing was worth-But then, no. No. This was her only chance, maybe, to find the proof that the Brannigan was sending families the wrong children. Lillian always kept every document. She’d told Ella that from day one. Since there was nothing incriminating in Lillian’s office at the Brannigan, whatever she’d kept must be here.
Or in a safe deposit box, or in a safe, or somewhere else completely, Ella’s common sense yelled at her. Or perhaps you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.
She refused to accept that. Because the thing that brought her here-all those files she looked at Sunday night about the Beerman baby, and the other most recent calls-Hoffner, Lamonica, DaCosto-everything had looked normal. No secret scribbles or special codes, no yellow stickies or funny numbers. Nothing that would indicate those reunited families were different from any others.
I’ve looked at these from top to bottom, from head to toe, she’d complained out loud to Whiskers. That’s what did it.
Head to toe.
It wasn’t about what was in the files. It was about what wasn’t in them.
That’s what she was looking for.
Was it really smoke? Jane rolled down her car window, leaning out through the half-rain half-snow that slickened the streets and would threaten power lines if the temperature kept falling. She thought she’d seen the slightest of wisps, snaking from the basement window on the side of Lillian’s house. Now it was gone. Maybe it was from neighborhood fireplaces. Or the wind.
She buzzed up the window, looked at the glowing numbers on her dashboard. Nine thirty. It had taken her frustratingly long to get here in the maddening traffic. Ella promised to wait. Clearly she hadn’t. Now she wasn’t answering her phone.
Nine thirty-one. Now what? There was no police tape, but no matter. If Ella was inside, that was something Jane would not get involved in. Ella Gavin, a grown-up, could make her own decisions. If she’d illegally entered a crime scene, that decision was a stupid one.
Jane blew out a breath, calculating.
If Ella was in the Finch house, it was so absurd that-Damn. Jane turned off the engine, and opened the door into the night before she could change her mind. She’d knock on the door, see if Ella was there, and drag the idiot woman out of the house before she could do anything dumb. Well, dumber.
Jane checked both ways as she crossed Margolin Street. Unnecessary. There was no traffic. Just more sleet. She wrapped her muffler closer. Got angrier with every stride. She should be home, with a glass of wine. And possibly, Jake, planning their future, not goose-chasing this delusional person who imagined she’d find proof that an adoption agency was sending birth parents the wrong children. She would definitely kill Tuck.