finish this story.”
“Good girl,” she said.
I glanced at the running shoes under my desk and then back at Abby. “You know what’s funny?” I picked up the letter from the hospital. “That name, Morelandsteed. It’s the same name on the back of a child’s drawing I found.”
She grinned. “You think there’s some connection?”
I shrugged. “That would be a pretty crazy coincidence,” I said, my reporter’s curiosity piqued. “But it’s an unusual name. Who knows?”
“Follow up on it,” she said, nodding and turning to the door. “I’m here till six if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I replied, looking back to my computer screen, where I keyed in the hospital’s URL. Once I found the general number, I picked up the phone.
“Yes, hi,” I said to the hospital operator. “I’m trying to reach an employee by the name of Katie Morelandsteed.”
“Just a moment,” the woman replied.
“This is Katie,” chirped a voice a few seconds later.
“Uh, hi, Katie, this is Claire Aldridge, from the Seattle Herald. I mean, well, here’s the thing. You sent me a package recently. A box of—”
“Yes, Claire,” she said. “Of course. I hope you don’t mind that we mailed the box to your workplace. For some reason we didn’t have your home address on file. And, well, anyway, we’ve been trying to reach you for some time. You might think it strange for us to send you all your clothes from the accident, but we’ve found that acknowledging the remnants of a tragedy can really help our patients heal, and help them—”
“Yes,” I said, cutting her off, “it’s fine. I’m actually calling about something else. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you don’t, by chance, happen to be related to a woman named Eva Morelandsteed? It’s a shot in the dark, really; I—”
“Well, actually, yes,” she said. “I have a great-aunt named Eva.”
My jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Yeah, she lives in Seattle, right by Pike Place. She’s in her eighties, but you’d never know it. Aunt Eva’s as sharp as a whip. Wait, how is it that you know her?”
“It’s sort of a long story,” I said. “I’m working on an article, and I found something with her name on it from a long time ago. I hoped to contact her.”
“Sure,” Katie said. “I have her phone number in my cell phone. Let me pull it up for you. She was a librarian for decades, so she’s always supportive of research. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
A few moments later, I scrawled the number down on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Katie.”
“Of course.”
I hung up the phone and then punched the numbers in quickly. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Morelandsteed? Eva Morelandsteed?”
“This is she.”
“Hi,” I said, clearing my throat. “My name is Claire Aldridge. I’m a reporter with the Seattle Herald. I apologize for bothering you, but your niece, Katie, gave me your phone number, and, well, I’m working on a story about the storm that hit Seattle in May of 1933, and I came across some information about a little boy named Daniel Ray.” I paused, waiting for Eva’s response, but the line was quiet. “Ms. Morelandsteed? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
I sat up straighter in my chair. “So you know him? Or, rather, you knew him?”
“I did,” she said. “It was so long ago.”
My heart beat faster.
“How did you say you found my name?” she asked suspiciously.
“On a drawing,” I said. “A child’s drawing over at Café Lavanto.”
“Well,” she said, a stiff practicality tingeing the edges of her voice, “I’m not sure how I can help you. I was just a small child when he went missing.”
“Could we meet in person?” I had learned early on as a reporter that people always divulge more in person than they do on the phone. A senator had once confessed his marital affair to me at a lunch interview at Canlis restaurant during the salad course. I remember crunching into a bite of romaine when he told me about the shade of his mistress’s eyes. “Perhaps when we talk, you’ll remember something. Even a small detail might help.”
“Well,” she said, her voice softening a bit, “I suppose that would be all right. Would you like to come by tomorrow morning?”
“I would love that.”
“Good,” she replied. “I live in the Brighton Towers, a retirement home near the Market.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“You know,” she added, her voice trailing off, lost in memories, “my