Georgia heaved a long sigh and tapped her fingers on her desk, then seemed to come to terms with Val’s request. “I do understand,” she said, seemingly sympathetic, “and I’m certain some of the people who worked with Sister Camille would love to talk to you.” She wrote a few names on a notepad, then stuck the note onto a flyer that was identical to the one Slade had taken earlier. “I can’t open our records for you, and even if I wanted to, it would take time. Those records are a quarter of a century old, before we were on computer. They’re stored in the basement, I think. I’m not even sure.”

Val thought that was a lie, but she wouldn’t call the reverend mother on it—not yet.

Georgia offered a kind smile. “I do hope you’re coming to the auction. As someone who was adopted out of St. Elsinore’s, you have a special connection here, and we’re encouraging everyone associated with the orphanage to participate.” Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’ll be, well, I hate to say ‘fun’ in this time of your sorrow, but let’s just say it’s a worthwhile project. We’d love to have you join us. In fact”—she reached into the top drawer and found an envelope from which she withdrew two tickets—“I just happen to have a couple of complimentary passes. Please come as my guest.” She gave Val the page, flyer, and tickets, then even went so far as to walk her through the hallways and paths that connected the church, playground, and gardens.

Being inside the walls of St. Elsinore’s was difficult. Though the buildings had changed a bit, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking backward to her past and the terror she’d felt as a preschooler who’d just lost her parents and was brought here.

The orphanage itself, a two-story building with rows of long windows, caused her skin to crawl. She remembered the ward, just vaguely, a bright, gleaming white room by day that became dark and frightening when the lights had been turned off. Above each metal cot was a crucifix, and the sheets were scratchy and stiff, smelling of bleach. She recalled all too vividly lying in bed, the covers pulled over her head as she heard the sound of footsteps pacing the hall, crepe soles squeaking, dark shadows passing and cried softly for her parents.

She’d been scared to death, and the girls in the ward had only stared at her with wide, haunted eyes. Most of the nuns, who then wore habits, had been kind, if busy, pushing her through her day, but there had been a few who had seemed ill-suited to tend to children.