on his face was more of a dare than a threat, as if wanting Ellis to try. For the sport of it. For kicks.
Ellis surrendered his grip and came upright. He didn’t know who the men were or what they wanted. But he did know one thing.
Sitting in the back seat of a Packard had undeniably more appeal than being stuffed in the trunk.
Chapter 34
Lily’s impatience swelled with every passing minute. At the bus station in Clover, another Greyhound came and went. Passengers climbed on and off. Exhaust fumes assaulted the air.
Too restless to sit, Lily hovered beside a wooden bench and coughed into a handkerchief, waiting for the pungency to fade. Waiting for Ellis to drive up.
When she had phoned with Claire’s news, he seemed worn, though as anxious as she was to bring the Dillards together. Geraldine had given up her children solely to ensure them a better life. It seemed they were getting anything but that. Geraldine would want to know this, yet Ellis had remained levelheaded, cautioning against sounding an alert until they learned more.
Sage advice. It had been two months since Calvin was left at the orphanage. What if he had already been adopted? Or, if still there, was he being mistreated as Claire had suggested?
Oh, why had she mentioned such a thing? Lily consequently spent half the night tossing about, disturbed by visions of neglected and battered children. She pictured their young, defenseless bodies, as small as Samuel’s, being punished with rods, starved of food, bound to their beds.
“Ellis,” she murmured, “what in the world is keeping you?”
Over the past few weeks, quite unexpectedly, he had become a person she could rely upon, someone she could trust. More than she ever should have. Her head told her this, though when she thought of him coming to her family’s aid, of carrying her son from the bath, of comforting her with his arms and his words, it was near impossible to feel she had misjudged.
Either way, her window of time was narrowing, limited by the departure of the last return bus. The sun had just dipped behind the roofline of the town, an area reminiscent of Maryville. Already, most of the businesses lining the street were closing for the night.
Purse tucked under her arm, Lily marched over to the ticket clerk. “Pardon me, sir. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.”
Making her case at the orphanage without Ellis’s support and testimony was going to be a challenge. Nonetheless, she would go it alone.
• • •
The walk stretched for more than a mile. Soreness in Lily’s arches told her as much. Had she anticipated the hike, she would have worn more comfortable shoes. She just hoped the overcast sky would withhold its moisture a while longer.
Following the directions by memory, she continued past a group of children playing stickball in an empty lot. On the porch of a nearby house, an elderly man slept on his rocker. Next door, a woman was beating dust from a rug.
Lily debated on interrupting to confirm the accuracy of her path. But as she neared another road, she spotted an old brick warehouse fitting the clerk’s description.
McFarland Tanning Factory was painted in white faded letters. Rows of windows dotted both levels. The orange glow of the sun blocked hints of what lay inside.
Only when she approached the front door did she find proof of the building’s transformation. Over the entrance hung a sign that solidified Claire’s heartbreaking tale.
WARREN COUNTY HOME FOR CHILDREN
Since the market crashed, Philly’s many abandoned warehouses had become common refuges for squatters. But imagining such a place full of youngsters all alone in the world caused Lily an intake of breath.
Girding herself, she tugged twice on a dangling chain, ringing a bell. After a wait, likely shorter than it seemed, a small square in the metal door swung open, revealing a single eye.
Lily felt a sudden need for a password, as if negotiating entry into a discerning underground club. She cheerfully raised a gloved hand. “Good evening.” Before she could say more, the viewing square slapped shut. She appeared to have failed the test until a low screech suggested the release of a bolt, and the door opened.
The woman had skin the color of molasses and wore a simple brown dress that hung loose on her stout frame. The stains on her apron and the frizzy locks sprouting from her headscarf denoted a long day of physical work. “You here for Mr. Lowell?”