Page 25 of Antihero
Yes, and yes. I see Cass. In turned-away strangers, in their straight, pale blond hair. When we were children, she had such fine, soft and fair hair that light seemed to burn right through it. One of our foster 'mothers' chopped it once, claiming it cost too much to wash, that it looked too dirty. It was never Cass' pride after that.
Charlotte straightens, not needing my answer, probably already knowing it. "It shut down because an investigation found that a high number of the girls were ending up at Eternal Light—more than reasonably expected, even among displaced kids."
I peer at her. "You worked there?" Maybe she has a guilty conscience of her own.
"I did. I was young, and I had very little to do with the children.” Here, she hesitates. “I just saw them on arrival. That’s it,” she says the last part with finality, and I know better than to press, even if I don’t quite believe her. It seems obvious to me that a psych would’ve had a greater role with the orphaned children who were sent on to a mental institution.
I give half-answers for the rest of the session, distracted, writing it off as fatigue from my injuries. Worry curls cold in my chest.
Because if the Wraith is targeting people associated with the asylum, and maybe the girls' orphanage too, and Charlotte has ties to both…
Charlotte could very well be on Paige’s list.
***
I go straight from Eternal Light to the library at Feston, making the hour or so climb halfway up the slope of the mountain by foot. The town differs from Kidswal in just about every way. The two streets are narrower, with cars lining the sides. Customers for the small boutique shops come mainly from the large houses, verging on mansions, that dot the surrounding estates. The rich part of the island, almost directly north from Kidswal, which I can see from my now elevated height when I turn and look beyond the drop of the road.
The library doubles as the home of the council records, and judging by the look the teenager manning the desk gives me when I ask to access the school and orphanage records, I can assume no one asks for those very often.
Unfortunately, the school records are closed unless I can prove I’m looking for my own child. But the ones for the girl’s orphanage are open, because there are no parents searching for them.
It’s a binder that has ‘White Rock Home for Girls, 1980-1993’ printed on it in block letters across the front. The last records kept before the orphanage burned down a decade ago. The laminated edges have worn and are peeling up at the corners.
I skip to the back of the book towards the later date range that I need, and I find several pages of large, grainy photos in a sepia tone. Group photos of fifty or more girls lined up. The book is heavy and dusty, the names printed in tiny cursive that I’m forced to squint to see.
I’m looking for her name. It seems inevitable that I’ll find her here, sorry as I am for that. But while I’m trawling through for her, I almost miss another one, near the end of all the pages. Theface catches my eye. At first, I think I’ve found Paige. Except, as I look closer, I see the name of Molly, and the age- a couple of years older than Paige, if the estimated date of birth is anything to go by.
Molly Morgan.
To go with Paige M.
I frown at the tiny black and white face. She can’t be older than twelve in the photo, and like the other twenty or so children in the picture, she’s not smiling.
I think I’ve found Paige’s sister.
The question is, what happened to her?
***
Paige
I clear the twigs away, pulling brambles back from the mound, brushing off leaves. Usually, I come here every month, before my appointment. But this past month has been… unexpected.
The grave underneath is small and low, barely noticeable this far off the track that traces the rocky escarpment north of Feston. Giants Peak, the mountain that Feston clings to the eastern slope of, blocks the view east from here.
I didn’t want her to have a view of the orphanage.
I sit on the grass beside her and place the handful of wildflowers I’d gathered on the way here at the head of it.
No cross, because she never believed in that.
“Frank Elvin is dead,” I tell her. “You never knew him. He knew none of us either, didn’t give a damn. But he knew aboutus alright, profited from us. Oh, and Declan Pastryachi. You’ll remember him, that older boy who tried to get us alone all the time, and then… anyway. You threw a book at him when you caught him spying on us through the window. He peed on my flowers too. Complete creep. He didn’t change. Anyway, he’s dead now, too.”
The wind whistles, and I take a deep breath. “They’ll all be gone soon. I’ll get them, before…” I stare at the mound, feeling too much of my own mortality. I’m not ready for that. But when has that mattered? “While I still have time,” I finish.
I glance towards the sky, the blue thats so rarely visible this time of year between the puffy white. “That’s four now. Four gone. Four to go.” Halfway. Not counting Declan. He wasn’t technically on the list. More of a bonus.
“I, uh, met a boy,” I say to the buzzing insects, the wind, and the birds. It’s never truly quiet here. That’s why I like it. Why Molly would’ve liked it. “He’s nice.” Then I laugh. “Well, he’s not actually. But he’s a similar level of broken as me. Cute, though.”
