as Mr. Walker ran with the thought. “Were the kids kept, sold, given away? Are they better or worse off? If the story’s got meat, it might be worthy of a Page One pitch.”
How the hell do you follow up on something that never happened? Ellis yearned to say, but replied evenly, “I’ll look into it.”
A quick nod and Mr. Walker strode onward, leaving Ellis to subdue a rising sense of dread.
In more than one way, his past was muscling back to the surface.
• • •
The plan changed en route.
On the drive from New York, having pulled out at first light, Ellis was over halfway to Philly when he chose to reverse stops. If he waited until Lily’s lunch break to arrive at the Examiner, she’d likely have a moment to spare, ideally in private. And that meant Laurel Township would come first.
The decision about a sequel piece was even easier to make. Despite the instinct to cover his tracks, one article based on a falsehood was more than enough. He wouldn’t be writing a second. The point of this trip, on the contrary, was to bring closure to the issue. Now he knew how. A single act would finally affirm that the journey had been worth the risks.
At last, Ellis steered onto the short dirt drive flecked with pebbles, ending at the Dillards’ home. Except for the leaden midmorning sky, the scene matched the image in his memory. The farmhouse with its covered porch. A film of dirt over its white paint. An apple tree set against rolling fields of hay.
Once parked, he stepped out of his car and patted the chest of his suit. The thick feel of the envelope, stuffed in his inside pocket, confirmed the gift was there. To the seven dollars accrued from his drawer of mail, he’d added twenty-three of his own. He’d be pretty strapped until next payday, but it was the least he could do. If the family had treasured two measly bucks, this would be a gold mine.
He only wished he’d done it sooner.
On the porch, he opened the screen door and rapped with his knuckles. When he received no answer, he knocked harder.
Still nothing.
Unlike the donations he’d delivered before, he wasn’t about to leave thirty smackers on the Dillards’ front steps.
After a third knock, he removed his hat to peer through the window. The narrow space between the blue gingham curtains limited his view.
From behind came the groan of an engine. He turned around, hopeful, only to discover a man driving a truck toward the house.
Ellis descended the stairs, anxious to make clear he wasn’t a shifty lurker. He gave a friendly wave as the vehicle rolled to a stop.
“Can I help ya, neighbor?” the grizzled man called from his open window, the motor running. The side of his black truck featured stenciled white lettering: U.S. MAIL.
“I’m looking for Geraldine Dillard. Any idea where I might find her?”
“Mmm, wish I could tell ya.” The man scratched his beard. “But Mrs. Dillard never registered a forwarding address.”
“You’re saying…she moved?” Ellis gazed back at the house, stunned by the news. “When?”
“Tough to say exactly. Once the kids were gone, she scarcely came out. All’s I know is a few months back, landlord told me to send the bills his way till there’s another renter.”
Ellis struggled with the explanation that implied a mother’s grief, punctuated by a single phrase: The kids were gone.
His thoughts flashed back to his brother. A swaddled bundle hurried out of the house and swept away. Buried in a small plot at a cemetery surrounded by trees and flowers.
Ellis met the man’s eyes. “What happened to them…the kids?”
“Well, now, I didn’t see nothing firsthand.”
“But you know something.”
The postman tossed a glance over his shoulder, as if assessing the area before disclosing town gossip. “Only thing I heard is from Walter Gale—ol’ Walt works down at the train depot. Handyman and such. Even helps out as a cabbie when the need calls. Walt says some fancy banker took the train in. Brought along a picture in the paper, one of this here house, and paid for a ride straight over. Left with the little ones the very same day.”
Relief swept through Ellis, having initially assumed the worst, but the feeling promptly vanished. “So, they’ve both been adopted.”
“Adopted? No, no. Not from what I gather,” the postman said. And right then, the notion of what was coming, the twisted reality of what Ellis had caused, struck with the force of a