Her stomach clenched. She closed the photo, went back to Google, and clicked the second link, which retrieved another group picture in shorts and T-shirts at a poolside party. The photo was dark, too, taken at night, but Carol’s hair had been cut around her ears in a boyish style that made her look even more like Will. And Bill’s body looked lean but cut, with muscular arms and legs that showed the same wiry build that Will had.
“This is crazy,” Ellen said aloud. She shoved the computer mouse away, got up from her chair, and went to the first file cabinet. She slid open the top drawer, moved the green Pendaflex files aside, skipping folders hand-labeled Bank Statements, Car Payments, Deed, until she found the Will file. She slid the file out, took it back to her chair, and opened it on her lap.
On top were folded clippings of the series she’d done on the CICU nurses, then the one she did on adopting Will. She leafed through them, pausing at an early photo of Will in his crib. The paper had run it on the first page, and Will looked nothing like himself then, so thin and sick. She moved it aside, shooing away the memories. Finally she found Will’s adoption papers and slid out the packet.
At the top of the final adoption decree, it read, “The Court of Common Pleas of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, Orphans’ Court Division,” and the order was in bold: “The Court hereby orders and decrees that the request for adoption is hereby approved and that the above-captioned adoptee is hereby adopted by Ellen Gleeson.”
She felt satisfied, in an official sort of way. Will’s adoption was all sewn up, legal, certified, and irrevocable. The court proceedings had been routine, and she had appeared on the second floor of the courthouse in Norristown, for the first time in public with Will. The judge had pounded the gavel, then issued the decree from the bench with a broad smile. She would never forget his words:
I have the only happy courtroom in the entire court house.
It gladdened her to remember that day, holding baby Will in her arms, her first day as a mother. She read the decree again. “The needs and welfare of ADOPTEE will be promoted by approval of this adoption and all requirements of the Adoption Act have been met.” So her adoption was a done deal, and it was closed, meaning that she didn’t know the identity of the birth mother and father. They had consented to relinquish their parental rights, and their written consent forms had been submitted to the court by Ellen’s lawyer, as part of the adoption papers. The lawyer’s name and address were at the bottom of the page:
Karen Batz, Esq.
Ellen remembered Karen well. Her office was in Ardmore, fifteen minutes away, and she had been a smart, competent family lawyer who had guided her through the adoption process without overcharging her, the thirty-thousand-dollar fee in line with a standard private adoption. Karen had told her that the birth mother was thrilled to find someone with the desire and the means to care for such a sick child, and that taking a sick baby would be her best chance to adopt as a single mother. Even the judge had commented on the unusual facts of the case:
It was a stroke of luck, for all concerned.
The paperwork had been completed without a hitch, and Ellen became responsible for Will’s medical expenses to the tune of $28,000 and change, but the hospital permitted her to pay in installments. She had just paid off the last penny, and in the end, she got Will, safe and sound, and they became a family.
She sighed happily, closed the file, and put it away behind the others. She shut the file drawer, but stood there, lost in thought for a minute. On the wall over the cabinets hung a Gauguin poster she’d had framed, and she found herself staring at it, the tropical blues and greens blurring her thoughts. The house was quiet. The wind whistled outside. The radiator knocked faintly. The cat was probably purring. Everything was fine.
Still, she was thinking about her lawyer.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, Ellen’s wardrobe was back on autopilot, and she slipped a down coat over her jeans-sweater-clogs trifecta. Her hair was still wet from the shower, her eye makeup only perfunctory. She felt raw and tired, gone sleepless after a night of quality dwelling.
“You’re leaving early?” Connie asked, shedding her coat by the closet. Bright sunlight shone through the window in the door, warming the living room.
“Yes, I have tons of work,” Ellen lied, then wondered why. “He didn’t have a fever this morning but he slept badly. I still wouldn’t send him to school.”
“We’ll take it easy.”
“Good, thanks.” Ellen kept her back turned, grabbed her bag and the manila envelope, then opened the door. “I told him good-bye. He’s playing in bed with his Legos.”
“Ouch.”
“I know, right?”
“Looks like the snow’s holding off,” Connie said, cheery.
“See you, thanks.” Ellen went to the door and left, catching a glimpse of the babysitter’s puzzled expression through the window, then she pulled her coat tighter and hit the cold air, hustling across the porch and toward the car.
Ten minutes later, she reached the two-story brick building behind Suburban Square and pulled up at the curb in front of the sign that read PROFESSIONAL BUILDING. She’d called Karen Batz’s office from her cell phone this morning, but no voice mail had picked up, so she’d decided to drop in. It was on the way to the city, and she was hoping Karen would see her. Even a feature reporter knows when to be pushy.
Ellen grabbed her bag and the envelope and got out of the car. She walked down the walkway and went inside the blue door, which they kept unlocked. There was a colonial-style entrance hall with a hunting-scene umbrella stand, and she opened the door on the right, which read, LAW OFFICES, and went inside. She stood, disoriented, for a minute.
Karen’s office was completely different. There was a navy carpet and a paisley couch and chairs she didn’t remember from before. The huge bulletin boards blanketed with baby photos had been replaced by beach-and-surf scenes and a mirror framed with fake seashells.
“May I help you?” a receptionist asked, coming out of the back room. She was about sixty-five, with red reading glasses and her brown hair cut short. In her hand she held an empty Bunn coffeepot, and she had on a cardigan embroidered with stick-figure skiers and a long corduroy skirt.
“I was looking for Karen Batz,” Ellen answered.
“Her office isn’t here anymore. This is Carl Geiger’s office now. We do real estate.”
“Sorry. I called Karen’s old number, but they didn’t pick up.”
“They should disconnect the line. I keep telling them to, but they don’t. You’re not the first one to make this mistake.”
“I’m a client of hers. Do you know where she moved to?”
The receptionist’s eyes fluttered briefly. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Batz passed away.”
“Really?” Ellen asked, surprised. “When? She was only in her forties.”
“About two years, maybe a year and a half ago. That’s how long we’ve been here.”
Ellen frowned. “That would be right around the time I knew her.”
“I’m so sorry. Would you like to sit down? Maybe have some water?”
“No, thanks. What did she die of?”
The receptionist hesitated, then leaned closer. “Frankly, it was a suicide.”
Ellen felt stunned. “She killed herself?” Memories came back to her. Karen’s desk had photos of her three sons. “But she was married, with kids.”
“I know, such a shame.” The receptionist turned toward a noise from the back room. “If you’ll excuse me, I should get ready. We have a closing this morning.”
Ellen was nonplussed. “I wanted to talk to her about my son’s adoption.”
“Maybe her husband can help you. I’ve directed her other clients to him.” The receptionist went to the computer and hit a few keys, the bright monitor screen reflected in her glasses. She pulled a pen from a mug, then scribbled on a piece of paper. “His name’s Rick Musko. Here’s his office phone.”
>
“Thanks,” Ellen said, accepting the sheet, which had a 610 phone number, the Philly suburbs. “Do you have the address?”
“I’m not authorized to give that out.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Back in her car, Ellen was on the cell phone to Karen’s husband before she pulled away from the office. It was only 8:10, but a man answered the phone.
“Musko here.”
“Mr. Musko?” Ellen introduced herself and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m, er, was, a client of Karen’s. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Musko said, his tone cooler.
“She helped me adopt my son, and I had wanted to speak with her. I have a question or two about—”
“Another lawyer took over her practice. You should have gotten a letter. I can give you his information.”
“I just wanted my file. Does he have the files, too?”
“How old is the case?”
“It was about two years ago.” Ellen winced at the coincidence of timing, but if Musko noticed it, he didn’t miss a beat.
“I have the dead files in my garage, at the house. You can come by and look for your file. That’s the best I can do.”
“Wonderful. When could I come by?”
“I’m busy this month, we have a project at work.”
“Please, could it be sooner? This is important.” Ellen heard anxiety thin her voice, surprising even herself. “If I could just come over this week? Tonight, even? I know it’s short notice but I won’t make any trouble for you, I’ll just go out to the garage and find it myself.”
“Tonight?”
“Please?”
“I suppose the housekeeper can let you into the garage. Her name’s Wendy. I’ll call her.”
“Thanks so much. I’ll be there by six.” Ellen prayed Connie could stay late.
“Make it seven, then the kids will have eaten. Look for the U-Haul boxes in the garage. Wendy will show you. You can’t miss them.” Musko gave Ellen an address, and she thanked him and hung up, then typed it into her BlackBerry.
As if she would forget it.
Chapter Seventeen
“Ellen, come on in!” It was Marcelo, calling from his office as she hustled into the newsroom.
“Sure.” She waved to him, masking her dismay as she spotted Sarah sitting inside his office. She slipped off her coat and stuffed it under her arm with her bag and envelope.
“Good morning.” Marcelo stood smiling behind his desk, in dark pants and a matte black shirt that fitted close to his body, showing broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist. Either he’d been working out, or Ellen was in lust.
“Hi.” Sarah nodded at her, and Ellen took a seat, barely managing a smile.
Marcelo sat down. “Sarah was just telling me she spent the afternoon with the new police commissioner. Great, no?”
Grrrr. “Great.” “He was willing to talk on the record about the homicide rate. Wait until you see her draft, it’s terrific.” Marcelo turned to Sarah. “Make sure you copy Ellen. I want you two to keep each other up to speed.”
“You got it.” Sarah made a note on her pad, but Marcelo was already turning to Ellen.
“How’s the story going?” His dark eyes flashed expectantly.
“Nothing significant yet.” Ellen had to think fast. “I have a lead but nothing to get excited about.”
“Fair enough.” Marcelo nodded, and if he was disappointed, it didn’t show. “Let me know and copy Sarah whenever you get something drafted.”
Sarah asked, “Ellen, did you see those leads I listed on page three? The top one, Julia Guest, said she’d love to talk to us. You might want to start with her.”
“Maybe I will.” Ellen hid her annoyance, and Marcelo clapped his hands together like a soccer coach.
“Okay, ladies,” he said, but his gaze focused on Ellen, and not in a come-hither way. More in a you’re-gonna-get-fired way.
“Thanks.” She left the office behind Sarah, who slid a sleek BlackBerry from her waist holster and started hitting the buttons. Ellen dumped her stuff on an empty desk on the fly and caught up with Sarah before she started the call. “Hold on, wait a sec.”
“What?” Sarah turned, her cell to her ear.
“We need to talk, don’t you think?”
“Maybe later,” Sarah answered, but Ellen wasn’t about to let it go. She snatched the phone from Sarah’s hand and pressed the End button, then turned on her heel.
“Meet me in the ladies’ room if you want your toy back.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Give me back my phone!” Sarah held out her palm, her dark eyes flashing. “What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Ellen raised her voice, and the sound reverberated off the hard tiles of the ladies’ room. “Why are you talking to everyone about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told Marcelo I was upset about Courtney, and you told Meredith that I was bad-mouthing Marcelo and Arthur.”
“I did no such thing and I want my phone back.” Sarah wiggled her hand impatiently, and Ellen slapped the BlackBerry into her palm.
“Meredith told me, and so did Marcelo. Marcelo, Sarah. Our editor. You can get me fired, talking me down to him.”
“Oh please.” Sarah scoffed. “Meredith misunderstood. I didn’t say you said anything bad about them, specifically.”
“I didn’t say anything about them.”
“You called them bastards!” Sarah shot back, leaving Ellen incredulous.
“What? When?”
“In here, before they came for Courtney. You said, ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down.’ ”
“Gimme a break, Sarah. It’s an expression. My father says it all the time.”
“Whatever, you said it.” Sarah snorted. “I only told one person in the newsroom.”
“One is enough. That’s why they call it a newsroom.”
“Meredith never talks.”
“Everybody talks, these days.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You’re overreacting.”
“And what about Marcelo? You told him, too. You said I wasn’t a fan of his.”
“He asked me how was morale in the newsroom after Courtney got fired. I told him it was bad and that you felt the same way. That’s all.” Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Are you telling me you didn’t feel that way? That you’re happy Courtney got fired?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what are you whining about?”
“Don’t talk to the boss about me, got it?”
Sarah waved her off. “Whatever I said, it’s not gonna hurt you. Marcelo wants you around, and you know why.”
Ellen reddened, angry. “You know, that’s insulting.”
“Whatever. We need to talk about the think piece.” Sarah straightened up at the sink. “Do us both a favor and use my lead. Call Julia Guest. My job’s riding on this, and I’m not about to let you screw me up.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do my part, you do yours.”
“You’d better.” Sarah brushed past her for the door, and Ellen heard her mutter under her breath.
Ironically, they were saying the exact same thing:
Bitch.
Chapter Nineteen
Ellen worked on the homicide piece through lunch, reading Sarah’s notes and doing her own research before she made any contacts, but she found it almost impossible to concentrate, distracted by thoughts of Karen Batz. Tonight she’d find the file on Will’s adoption, and it had to help fill in some of the blanks. She’d already called Connie, who’d agreed to stay late.
Her gaze returned to the notes on her desk, and she told herself to focus on the task at hand. She had to look busy, too, aware that Marcelo was in his office, holding meetings. She glanced up, and at the exact same moment, Marcelo was looking at her through the glass.
Ellen smiled, flushing, and Marcelo broke their eye contact, returning to his meeting, ge
sturing with his hands, his shirtsleeves folded carelessly over his forearms. She put her head down and tried to focus. She had only a few hours of daylight left.
She picked up the phone.
Chapter Twenty
Night came early to this neighborhood, the sun fleeing the sky, leaving heaven black and blue, and Ellen circled the block, scribbling notes as she drove. Trash blew in the gutters, swept along by unseen currents, stopping when it flattened against older cars. Sooty brick rowhouses lined broken sidewalks; some houses had graffitied plywood where windows used to be, and others had only black holes, unsightly as missing teeth. Porch roofs sagged, peeling shutters hung crooked, and every home had bars covering its doors. One house had encased its entrance in bars, curved inward at the top like a lion’s cage.
A boy had been shot to death on this block of Eisner Street, only two weeks ago. Lateef Williams, age eight.
Ellen turned right onto Eisner, where only one streetlight worked, and it threw a halo over a pile of trash, rubble, and car tires dumped on the corner. She stopped at number 5252, Lateef’s house, and his memorial out front was bathed in darkness, the shadows hiding a purple bunny rabbit that sat lopsided against Spider-Man figurines, crayoned drawings, a king-size box of Skittles, sympathy cards, and a mound of spray-painted daisies and sweetheart roses, still in plastic wrap. A sign handwritten in Magic Marker read WE LOVE YOU, TEEF, and a few candles sat around it, unlit in the cold and wind. Lateef Williams was denied the smallest measure of warmth and light, even in death.
Ellen felt a wrench in her chest. She didn’t know how many children had been killed in the city last year, but she could never get used to the idea. She never wanted to get to the point at which a child’s murder was old news. She fed the car some gas and pulled into a parking space, then gathered her things to meet Lateef’s mother.