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He tosses the dish towel he dried his hands on over his shoulder and goes to the door. A look through the peephole removes the tension from his shoulders and he turns the lock, opening thedoor.
“Who is it?” I ask just as Dean stepsinside.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry it’slate.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you were still in the middle of yourcase.”
“It’s done,” he says.
I don’t like the way he says it. There’s heaviness in the words that says the case ended in a way he didn’t expect or want it to. I don’t ask for any more details.
“Come on,” I tell him, gesturing for him to come further into the house. I stand up to give him a hug. “Have youeaten?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
He and Sam exchange one of those distinctly male greetings of clasping hands like they are going to give each a professional shake, then pulling in for half a hug that is almost as much pounding on each other’s backs as it is embracing. I’m not sure the purpose of the multi-step process, but it’s a huge improvement for the two of them, and anything that seems like two of the most important people in my life are getting along better than they have is good for me. They could break into an interpretive dance if that’s what they needed to do and I’d just step aside and give them the space.
“Let me grab you a plate. Sam made pasta. It’s delicious,” I tellhim.
He comes in and gathers Xavier in a hug.
“You okay?” heasks.
“I’m fine,” Xavier says.
Dean sits on the couch and lets out a long breath like he’s been waiting for just this moment to let it stream from his lungs. I go into the kitchen to get his food and when I come back I see him sifting through the papers I spread out across the table when I got home.
“For the case,” I tell him, handing him the plate. “There are still a lot of gaps tofill.”
“I might be able to help you with some of them,” hesays.
I perk up a bit. “Does that mean you have information for me about the home?”
He already has a bite of manicotti in his mouth and he nods around it. He gestures to the satchel he’d had over his chest when he came inside and set at his feet when he sat down. I pick it up and he opens it, pulling out a folder.
“This is it,” he says.
Setting down the bag, I open the folder and take out several printed sheets. They look like faxed scans of newspapers as well as some other documents. One of the newspapers catches my eye. In the top corner is the name of thepublication.
“The Garnet Bugle,” I say. “This must be the same newspaper from the article in Mike’soffice.”
“It’s from Garnet, Georgia. That’s where Cornelia’s Home for Unwed Mothers is. It opened seventy yearsago.”
“Is it still open?” Iask.
“Yeah, but it’s not quite the same thing now. It still takes in unmarried pregnant teenagers, but now there’s a lot more emphasis on supporting them, helping them learn how to care for them, finding housing and job placements. That kind of thing. But that’s really only been for the last ten years or so. Before that, it was a place people sent their daughters when they got pregnant and the family didn’t want to be ashamed by them, or girls went when their families threw them out. They would house them and provide medical care during their pregnancy, and arrange for the adoption of the baby. They also ran anorphanage.”
“Sounds like a cheerful place,” Isay.
“It’s probably better than a lot of the alternatives. But it definitely wasn’t a place anyone would be thrilled to go to. I was able to get in touch with the people running it now and they are proud of how far they’ve come and how many people they’ve helped. They still arrange adoptions if that’s what the mother wants, but they encourage them to consider keeping their baby. They like to think of themselves as providing a way for families to stay together,” Deanexplains.
“That’s certainly a nicer thought. Did you ask them about thearticle?”
“I did. They knew what I was talking about and were able to fax over that article as well as some further details about that whole situation,” he says. “Apparently in 1965, there was a railway accident in Garnet. A train derailed and killed almost everybody on board. It happened when it was going directly through town and it sparked a fire that destroyed several businesses and a couple of homes. Something like thirty children were left without parents. Some of them were able to be placed with their grandparents or other family members, but a bunch didn’t have anywhere to go and ended up at Cornelia’s.”
“Oh, god,” I say. “That’shorrible.”
“But what does it have to do with Mike Kirkland?” Sam asks.
