Page 11 of Property of Quake

“Anyway, Sacred Haven needs some help.”

What he doesn’t say outright is that they need my help. For years, I’ve donated my time and money to their food drives, Christmas donations, school supplies, whatever they needed for the kids. The club has also helped, but not at the same level.

When I was patched into KOAMC, I promised myself I’d always find a way to balance the scales. Evil takes enough from this world, so what’s the harm in giving back to it a little? The children’s home is how I do that. And hell, it doesn’t hurt that it soothes a part of me that I’ve never let any other living soul see.

“Whatever they need, count me in.”

2

WHITNEY

“Sister Emiliani?”

I smile at the sound of my name, the one I chose when I became a novitiate. Saint Jerome Emiliani is the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children, and going by that name feels right in a way I’ve never been able to put into words.

Lifting the stack of donated clothing I only finished folding, I turn toward Sister Mary Jane. “Yes?”

She steps into the room, taking in the meager donations we’ve received in the past month. “This isn’t enough,” she comments softly.

“No, it isn’t,” I confirm. “But I believe Sister Beatrice has made some calls, so hopefully, the room will be full again soon.”

Six years have passed since my eighteenth birthday and my declaration that I would become a nun. Six years of rigorous religious study and self-reflection. Six years of sharing meals, prayers, and household duties with the women who raised me and taught me what family means.

“She did,” Sister Mary Jane says as she shakes her head. “But that’s not why I came to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

She sighs. “I’m concerned about Melissa. She’s still refusing to come out of her room, and I don’t seem to be making any progress with her. I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to her.”

My smile falls at the mention of the ten-year-old placed in our care a week ago. Melissa’s parents died in a car accident, and the state was unable to locate any family and didn’t have an available foster home, so they called us. She reminds me so much of myself at her age.

“Of course,” I reply.

“Thank you, Sister.”

I drop the stack of clothes back onto the table and make my way toward the girls’ wing. Most of the children are in the computer lab as that’s where they do their schoolwork, so the building is quiet.

When I reach the room Melissa shares with two other residents, I knock. No one responds, so I try again, getting the same result.

“Melissa,” I call through the door. “It’s Sister Emiliani. May I come in?”

“I don’t care,” a tiny voice says.

My eyes land on the little girl when I enter, and she’s curled up on her bed with the blanket drawn up to her chin. She doesn’t lift her head to look at me, not even when I sit on the edge of the mattress near the foot of the bed.

“You know,” I begin. “It’s okay to be sad.”

Melissa doesn’t speak as she sniffles and wipes her eyes. I don’t know how long we remain in relative silence, but eventually, she scoots up so she’s leaning against the headboard of the twin bed.

“I miss my mom and dad,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“And I miss Stella.”

I try to recall the name Stella from Melissa’s file, but it doesn’t ring a bell. “Who’s that?”

“My dog.”