Page 15 of Property of Quake

“We also need clothing,” Sister Beatrice adds, pulling the conversation back.

“Clothing?”

“Yes,” Sister Emiliani confirms, her eyes darting to the children playing outside. “Some come with nothing, and others come with clothes that don’t even fit.”

Her words hit me harder than they should. The idea that kids arrive here with nothing isn’t a foreign concept. Unfortunately, it’s all too common. That doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.

“We’re also running low on toiletries,” she says. “Shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, soap, toothpaste and toothbrushes… all the things that the social workers don’t even consider.”

“I know you’ve helped in the past, and our last fundraiser wasn’t all that long ago, but when you’re providing for so many children, things disappear quickly.”

Silence surrounds us, and I take the time to look around the office. No matter how many times I set foot in here, I’m always amazed at what the sisters running this place are able to do with very little.

Drawings and photos line the walls, a shrine to every child who spends any time here. The furniture is sparse, worn from decades of use, and yet, it’s homey, cozy.

“We’ll make do,” Sister Emiliani says, no doubt reacting to the stretched silence.

“No, you won’t,” I snap, and again, my words are harsher than I intend. “I believe you can make do, Sister, but you shouldn’t have to.”

“Which is why I called you,” Sister Beatrice states matter-of-factly. “For whatever reason, you care about the children who come through our doors, probably just as much as we do in your own way.”

“You know my reasons,” I remind her because she’s one person I’ve always been honest with about my motives.

“And they’re not my story to share,” she quips.

“No, I don’t guess they are,” I agree, shoving a hand through my hair. “Tell me exactly what you want from me. Gimme a number.”

“A number?” Sister Emiliani queries.

“I was hoping the two of you could work together to come up with a longer-term solution,” Sister Beatrice says, rising to her feet. “Monetary donations are always welcome and appreciated, however, funds run out, putting us right where we are now.”

“The two of us?” I ask, simultaneously hoping I heard her wrong and praying I heard her right.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Sister Emiliani has organized several successful fundraisers.” The younger of the two blushes at the praise. “And you have connections in the community.”

I laugh, amused by her description of the club. “Community connections, Sister?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “I believe the two of you will work well together,” she says, walking toward the door. “I have other matters to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Right now?” I demand.

“Right now,” she confirms, and then she’s gone, leaving me with Sister Emiliani.

4

WHITNEY

The quiet click of the door shutting behind my mentor might as well be a detonated bomb with how it fills the space. It was hard enough to remain focused on the conversation when my superior was present, and I fear it will be darn near impossible now that she’s gone.

“Well,” I say absently.

Quake arches a brow. “Well.”

I move to the filing cabinet and open the top drawer where all of our donation and fundraising records for the past year are kept. Tucking the binder under my arm, I turn back to face the large man.

“Follow me,” I say, and I step around him to exit the office.

Quake does as instructed, his heavy boots thudding on the polished floor behind me. I lead him to the common area, desperate to be in a space where others may come and go.