Barely five feet, with curly brown hair shot with gray, the mother superior wore a navy blue skirt and a matching jacket over a white shell. Energy seemed to radiate from her. Her face was creased and tanned, as if she spent hours in the sun, and a gold crucifix dangled from a tiny chain around her neck, while reading glasses were perched upon the end of her small nose.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, introducing herself as Sister Georgia and taking Val’s hand in both of hers. Her face was a mask of concern. “This is a hard time for all of us. Come on into my office and we’ll talk.”

They followed her into a small room where they were motioned into worn chairs positioned at the front of Sister Georgia’s desk. The room was compact but filled with light from several windows, one of which looked over the enclosed play area, now empty of children. Books lined one wall, and an antique globe was suspended in its own carved, wooden stand near a pot containing a burst of dark-throated orchids.

“How can I help you?” the reverend mother asked after everyone was seated.

“I’d like information about my sister,” Val explained. “I know she worked here some of the time, and I heard that she was looking into our birth parents.”

“Ah, yes, she was obsessed with finding out who they were.”

“But we knew. I remember my birth parents!” Val said, and repeated the story she’d been told about her adoption. The reverend mother listened patiently, not interrupting, only once in a while glancing at Slade, who sat in the chair next to Valerie.

Once Val was finished, Sister Georgia said, “Of course, all the adoption records were sealed long ago. I couldn’t help Camille except to counsel her, as I do with a lot of the people who come here searching for answers.” She frowned slightly. “As for the validity of the story you were told . . .” She shrugged.

“But you could find out.”

Georgia nodded. “Yes, but I’ve taken an oath. As I said, the files are sealed.”

“Then find a way to unseal them,” Val insisted, realizing that this kindly nun was just as rigid in her own way as Sister Charity was in hers. “This is my life”—she jabbed her thumb at her chest—“and I think there’s a chance my sister was killed because of what she was looking into!”

The reverend mother’s face remained impassive.

“Please. You can understand. I need to know the truth.”

“Of course. It’s just that I have responsibilities. Obligations, if you will—”