top. My heart beat faster as I read the words. THOMAS KENSINGTON, SON OF JOSEPHINE KENSINGTON. BORN APRIL 21, 1930, DIED JUNE 9, 1936. I wrote the words in my notebook.
The dates figured perfectly. Josephine must have taken him when he was three, and he’d died just a few years later. There he was, little Daniel—well, as Warren had said, they called him Thomas then—resting in the earth beneath my feet. I shook my head. No, he is not resting. Not without his mother.
I drove straight to the office, parking the car in the lot next to the Herald building. I walked quickly to my desk, passing the girls from sales on a cigarette break without stopping to say hi. At my desk, I pulled up the draft of the story on my computer, and I wrote, referring to my notebook for bits and pieces of my research from the previous week. Eva. Café Lavanto. The Kensington family. Press clippings from decades ago. The testimony from Mr. Ivanoff. And now the gravesite that tied it all together. I wrote through lunch, barely noticing my hunger, when I usually felt famished by noon. At two, I sat back in my chair and gazed at the completed story on my screen. I wrote the last sentence, then scrolled to the very top, where the cursor flashed next to the headline. “Blackberry Winter: Late-Season Snowstorm Holds Key to Missing Boy from 1933.” Below the headline, I typed my name with sure fingers. “By Claire Aldridge.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so proud of my byline.
I printed the article, five pages in total. Even though he took me off the story, Frank would want to see it. But I walked to Abby’s office first. She turned away from her computer and I dropped the pages on her desk, then sat in her guest chair while she read in silence. She looked up at me periodically with a shocked face, then turned back to the draft, continuing to read.
“Wow,” she said, handing the pages back to me.
“So what do you think?”
“Just, wow,” she said again. “You realize that you’re incriminating your husband’s entire family with this feature.”
I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
Abby looked doubtful. “Truth or not, you know the Kensingtons are never going to let you print it.”
“They have to,” I said. “It needs to be told.
“It does,” she agreed, looking thoughtful. “But wait, what about Vera? Did you ever find her grave?”
I sighed. “No,” I said, glancing back at the pages in my hand. “And the story doesn’t quite feel complete without that information, at least for me.”
Abby frowned. “What do you think the Kensingtons will think of all of this?”
“I don’t care what they think anymore,” I said. I looked to the window that looked out on the street, where a young mother walked by on the sidewalk holding the hand of her little boy. He wore a yellow raincoat with matching boots. I turned back to Abby. “It’s time the world learned what happened to Daniel Ray.”
She looked at me a long while. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’ve come a long way.”
“Thanks,” I said, turning toward the door.
Frank was on the phone, so I set the pages in front of him at his desk and whispered, “I know you killed the story, but for what it’s worth, here it is. I had to finish it.”
His grin told me he’d forgiven me.
Back at my desk, the red light on my phone blinked, alerting me to a voice message. I dialed the password and listened. “Claire, this is Eva. Sorry, I was out walking when you called. It feels odd leaving this information over a message recorder, but I’ll go ahead anyway so as not to delay your research. You asked where Vera was laid to rest, and you can find her at a little cemetery on First Hill, just north of the city. Ninth plot on the left, right next to the chain-link fence. I used to visit her more, but in my old age, well, I haven’t gotten up there in a long time. I’m glad you’re able to visit her, dear.”
My heart raced. I reached for my bag and jacket, but nearly ran into Frank in the doorway. “This,” he said, motioning me back to my chair, “is a work of art.”
I smiled cautiously. “You really think so?”
“Yes. Your finest research. And the writing”—he shook his head as though marveling at a fine painting—“it’s beautiful. Made me