Chapter 3 #2
A lead. Finally. Sofia had subtly questioned several people in town, and every one of them offered the same vague, dismissive answers, which only strengthened her resolve.
When she asked about the workers and the girls who had lived at St. Agnes, they pretended they had no idea what she meant.
Even the town’s sheriff stopped her one afternoon, casually inquiring about her purpose in town and hinting that her questions were making people uncomfortable.
The encounter had shocked her, and she remained unsettled for hours afterward.
Sofia took the paper. “Mildred?”
The woman gave a faint smile. “Just tell her.”
Sofia nodded. “Thank you.”
Almost thirty minutes later, Sofia pulled her rental into a parking space and stepped out of the car.
St. Margaret’s Retirement Home was a low, beige-brick building with manicured shrubs and a silent, airlocked entrance.
The air inside was a sterile mix of antiseptic, overcooked vegetables, and faint floral spray.
A young receptionist with a tight smile looked up from her computer. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Sister Helen,” Sofia said.
“Are you family?”
“No. She knew my mother.”
“I’m sorry, we can’t allow non-family visitors without authorization.” The woman started to turn away.
“Please, just tell her someone’s here about Katya Ivanova. From St. Agnes. Mildred from the library sent me.”
The receptionist froze, her professional smile vanishing. She glanced down the hall, then back at Sofia, her expression uneasy. After a long pause, she nodded. “Have a seat. I’ll ask if she’s accepting visitors.”
Sofia tucked that reaction away. She waited, pulse loud in the sterile quiet. When the woman returned, her face was unreadable.
“She’ll see you,” she said. “Sign the log. Common room. Last door on the right. You will see her by the window. She wears a soft yellow sweater.”
“Thank you.”
The hallway stretched long under harsh fluorescent light. Sofia’s steps echoed softly until she reached the common room—a tomb of quiet activity. A muted television flickered in one corner.
Near a window, an elderly woman sat in a high-backed chair. Her posture was straight, her white hair pinned in a severe bun. She was the only person in a yellow sweater. Taking a deep breath, Sofia walked over. The lady’s eyes were sharp, alert, and untrusting—following Sofia’s approach.
“Sister Helen?”
The nun’s voice was thin but firm. “Do I know you?”
“No. But you may have known my mother, Katya Ivanova. She lived at St. Agnes. May I sit and talk with you about her for a few minutes?”
Silence fell, heavy and knowing. Sister Helen’s expression didn’t change, but her hands tightened faintly in her lap.
Sofia sat in the chair closest to the nun.
“I found her diary,” she said quietly. “My mother never spoke in any detail about the orphanage, but she was running from someone. I was hoping you could help me understand her past and what she was so afraid of.”
Sister Helen exhaled slowly. “Your mother was brave. But some truths don’t want to be uncovered, child.”
“Something bad happened to her, and she was hurt,” Sofia pressed. “A man was responsible. He might still be out there.”
The nun’s gaze drifted toward the window. “Men like him don’t disappear. Not really. So he is still out there.”
“You remember him?” Sofia asked.
“Remembering and speaking are two different things,” Sister Helen murmured. “Some names still bring trouble.”
“I need to know who he was. Please, help me.”
The nun’s voice dropped, her eyes clouded with memory.
“Your mother was terrified. I saw it so many times in her eyes. She never said his name, but I saw the way she flinched when certain men came around. They weren’t just powerful; they made people disappear.
I should have protected my girls better. ”
They made people disappear. A tight feeling clamped around Sofia’s throat.
“Was it a priest?” Sofia’s voice was hollow. She wanted to scream for the anguish her mother had endured. How terrible it must have been to face everything alone, with no one to rely on, no one to save or protect her.
Sister Helen gave a humorless laugh. “No. Worse.”
“Who, then?”
The nun clutched her cross, knuckles white. “We should let the past stay in the past. There is no joy in life if we keep looking back.”
“My mother ran from her past our entire lives. I’m grateful she had happy moments with me, but there were shadows in her eyes… and pain. Someone awful haunted her. What if he is still out there hurting someone else? How am I supposed to live with that?”
A shudder went through Sister Helen, and she was silent for several beats. Finally, she said, “There was a man who visited St. Agnes often. Too often. Money bought him access. And silence.” Her voice thinned. “Too much silence. We told ourselves the money helped the other children.”
Sofia saw the guilt etched in every line of her face. This wasn’t just a story—it was a confession.
“A donor?” Sofia asked.
“A buyer.”
The word hit like a blow. Not a metaphor—factual, monstrous. Cold dread pooled in Sofia’s gut. “What do you mean, a buyer?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” the nun whispered. “St. Agnes took in the forgotten. No one came for those girls. And sometimes… they didn’t leave on their own.”
Sofia’s nails dug into her palms. My mother was merchandise. The orphanage wasn’t a sanctuary—it was a hunting ground. “She was supposed to be his.”
The room tilted. Sweat gathered at her nape.
She gripped the chair until the dizziness passed.
“She ran because this man was hurting her,” Sofia rasped.
She couldn’t believe that people who claimed to believe in a higher power had allowed such abuse to happen.
Disgust and rage twisted inside her chest.
“And she got away,” Sister Helen said softly, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “But not alone. Someone helped her. I was very glad Katya got help. I am ashamed it was not from me.”
“Who helped my mother?”
Sister Helen grimaced. “Only a small number of people knew for certain what was happening. For the rest, it was just rumors and baseless speculation. It was a tight circle; only a few would cross,” the nun murmured. “It would’ve taken someone with access and faith… or a death wish.”
“Tell me,” Sofia said, drawing in a breath to steady her patience, even as she fought the urge to lean across the desk and throttle the nun. “If you cannot tell me who helped my mother, then at least tell me the name of the man who harmed her.”
Sister Helen hesitated, weighing the risk. Then, in a whisper: “Find Father Gabriel. If he’s still alive, he’ll know the rest.”