Chapter I #3
She moved toward the desk to retrieve his notes.
On the top note, Henry had scribbled several dates and the name ‘Foster’ and the word ‘Notice?’ She saw that his uncapped pen was pushed to the side of the desk.
She picked up the note to examine it further.
Below Foster's name, Henry had written a single line: 'placement fees—$15 per child—redirected.’ There were dates written down as if he’d been copying them down onto the sheet, but the last date.
Only the month had been written for the bottom date, as if he had been interrupted.
Did these dates have something to do with their case?
Henry had been so intent on uncovering more information last night.
Normally, he dictated any important information, and she jotted it down.
She looked about for the source of the information, but there was nothing that lay open still.
She picked up the pen, looking for the cap, and finally saw it under the table next to the files she had carried, which were splayed across the floor.
As she capped his pen, she mused that he never left his pen uncapped.
Reaching for the desk drawer, she noticed it was ajar.
She held the pen suspended over the opening for an instant, thinking that Henry never left things out of place.
Rubbing her swollen eyes, she looked around again and tried to gather her wits.
She couldn’t shake the idea from her mind.
Hurriedly, she bent down to retrieve the papers.
A sudden anger overtook her. Here she was worrying about reuniting mothers with their children when she should be getting back to her own son—her own fatherless son.
She glared at the chaotic papers strewn about the desk.
All of these women were helpless. They had depended on Henry’s charity, and now Henry was gone.
His last acts were for these women. Her selfish heart screamed that their actions had probably warranted the removal of their children.
Her mind knew this was irrational, but nothing could salve her breaking heart.
She looked for Henry’s briefcase, needing something to stuff all the strewn-about papers in.
As she stood with the papers in a disorganized mess in her hands, her eyes searched the room.
It had to be here. Henry never went to the office without it.
She checked the perimeter of the room and even out into the foyer of the office, but it was gone.
Even that was gone! She let the papers fall onto the desk and spun on her heel.
She stalked toward the door as she let the anger well up behind her eyes.
As she paused to grab her coat, her hand found Henry’s instead.
The sudden jerk caused the weight of his pocket watch to swing back and forth in her hand.
Shoving her hand into his pocket, she gripped the watch.
She froze. Her mind went to the night before.
Henry had set the watch on the table while he worked.
She glanced over at the disorganized mess on his desk.
He had been working. The watch should have been found on his desk.
She pushed the irrational thought down and looked back at the watch in her hand.
Its gleam had dulled over the years since Henry had received it as a gift for his birthday the year after their son was born.
She remembered buying it all those years ago.
Recalling the small miniature affixed to the inside cover, she suddenly needed to see it.
It had been a miniature of their son, Simon, in his little black suit.
She had fashioned it after Henry's work suit, and he was posed on a settee. Mae’s fingers tingled as she thought of the little checkered neckerchief she had spent an hour tying and retying to get just right for the photograph.
After saving her spending money for months, she had finally surprised him.
The look on his face as he had unwrapped the small treasure was worth every sacrifice she’d made that year.
Henry had carried it with him wherever he went—tucked into the breast pocket of his overcoat in the winter or inside his suit jacket when it got warmer.
She stifled a sob. Her fingernail found the groove in the cover and pried open the lid.
A small slip of folded paper fell out to land on her chest as Simon’s little miniature eyes and tiny nose peeked up at her from their resting place.
For a moment, she ignored the paper, her heart tightening at the image of the little brown curls that she’d forestalled cutting for as long as possible.
He was such a beautiful child. Now he looked so much like his father that her heart stuttered at the mere thought.
Simon was the culmination of their beautiful love, the mainstay that kept them working through long hours.
She picked up the paper, curious to see what Henry had kept inside the watch all these years. Slowly unfolding it, she smiled as she recognized Henry’s handwriting. Her breath caught as she read the words scrawled in messy cursive—Foster knows I have the ledger. Keep Simon close.
She hadn’t seen a ledger. Her eyes darted around the room again before the words hit home.
Simon—she had to get to Simon.
Jerking her coat off the hook, she hurried to the doorway. Her foot stopped in midair. There was another set of muddy footprints that tracked to the desk. She rushed out the door, hurriedly jamming the key into the lock. As the deadbolt fought her, she finally heard it slide home.