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“Aren’t you a reporter? Don’t you do this sort of thing all the time?”
“Break and enter? Not until now.”
“I have a key,” I say with a growl.
“That you procured under false pretenses.”
“It’s my dad. I’ve done most things under false pretenses since I was four and told him my mom said he could take me for ice cream if he wanted to. She never gave permission for junk food, but playing them against each other worked every time. We won’t get caught. And even if we do, I know how to sweet talk my way out of just about anything.” I once tried to shoplift a piece of Double Bubble at the Little Mart and cried big fat elephant tears when I got busted with a big wad tucked inside my cheek. After a charming “kids will be kids” speech from my father, the clerk let me go with a pat on the head and my word to never do it again.
We step inside the county record’s building and close the door behind us, keeping clear of the windows. I avoid the light switch and lead Finn through the darkened room, careful not to nudge anything out of place. I might know how to sweet talk my way out of trouble, but I’d still rather keep things as we found them until we get back to the records room. A loud noise or a light shining inside a closed building would raise suspicions from passersby. No need to give people a reason to investigate.
“In here,” I say and flip the light switch, stepping aside for Finn and shutting the door behind us. The records room smells like dust and dirty armpits because, let’s face it, nothing of note happens in this town. Mustiness goes hand-in-hand with unuse. Cheap metal cabinets hold stacks of file boxes from floor to ceiling. Even without laying a hand on them, the racks groan under the weight as they struggle to hold up, the effort nearly unbearable. The only reason the town even keeps records of its citizens is because of some law on the books that says you have to. That, and the county clerk is a packrat; one drive by her house with the bulging carport and broken-down cars will tell you that much. Even the blinds on her front window hang askew, likely due to her own stack of boxes and file cabinets pressed up against them.
“I thought only three thousand people lived in this town,” Finn says. “Why so many files?”
“Three thousand is right, but this room contains the records of everyone who’s ever lived in Silver Bell, probably since the town was founded.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Doubt it, but it’s the way things have always been done. Plus, our clerk doesn’t know how to throw anything away.” I rub my hands together. “So, where should we start?”
Finn drops his briefcase to the floor and looks up, perusing the boxes on the top row, then the next, and so on. He reaches for one on the third shelf and blows a layer of dust off the top. I immediately sneeze and run a palm under my nose.
“Sorry, I won’t make that mistake again.”
I laugh and wave it off.
“Summer of 1968,” he says. “The year the fire took place. I guess that’s as good a place to start as any.”
I reach for my own box, and we spend the next few minutes in silence, quickly flipping through file after file, knowing we only have so long before the clock runs out and time catches up with us. Time in the form of my dad noticing his missing key and storming into this office himself. There are definite perks to being the mayor’s daughter, but the absence of those perks could make life slightly miserable, and there is no creative way to lie myself out of this one.
The only sound in the room is the occasional scrape of pencil on paper as Finn makes notes. “You find anything interesting?” I ask. From my end, this is a boring and pointless task.
“Nothing much I can use.” He pulls out a paper and studies it. “Here’s the hard copy of the article you found at the library. The one about the hospital records being falsified.”
“You mean the birth records?”
“One and the same.” Finn scans the article while I keep looking through my own box, finding nothing helpful. I glance up to see him frowning at the page. “Apparently, there was a lawsuit filed, but there’s no mention of it making it to court.”
I frown. “A lawsuit filed by who?”
“A man named Paul Ford. You think that’s the same Paul Mr. Bailey was talking about?”
“Could be, but there are a lot of Ford’s in this town, but not a Paul that I can recall specifically. Does the article give any other details?” I watch as Finn’s gaze flits side to side, reading intently.
He blinks and lowers the paper. “He filed the lawsuit on behalf of Sally Gertie. Is she who I think she is?”
“I think Gertie is her last name, but I can’t honestly remember. Sally is about as common a name as Ford around here. What was the lawsuit about?” I ask, absentmindedly flipping through papers in my own box but quickly losing interest. My fingernail snags on something and I pull it free. A newspaper clipping with a photo attached. It is weathered from wear and years, with yellowed tape stuck on the back like it was pulled from an old album and stuffed deep inside this file. I blink up at Finn, an eerie feeling tickling the back of my neck. “Does it say what the lawsuit was about?” My voice comes out in a rasp as I ask the question again.
He shakes his head. “Not specifically, just that one was filed accusing the hospital of wrongdoing, but it was quickly dismissed. If this is the same woman, why does she keep entering into every conversation? Why does everyone know her, but no one associates with her? Who is she? And what did she do to piss them all off?”
“I don’t know, but I think we’ll find out.” I swallow, saying nothing else because it’s never wise to make assumptions based on suspicion. I need more than that. For now, all I know is that maybe it isn’t who Sally is or what she did.
Maybe it’s that she knows too much.
I shove the picture in my back pocket on a hunch in case I need it later.
Maybe Sally is the smart one, spending her life hiding in plain sight…
