“You were saying, about an old case?” I prompt.

“Oh. What? Ah, yes. Every case is different. Each requires focus, commitment. There’s a caseworker I used to know. Committed with a capital C. Retired early, though. Nerves shot. Always told her, law isn’t for sissies.”

“Was that Heidi?”

“Who’s Heidi?”

I bat away frustration. “Can you tell us about your foster care cases?”

“Ah. Foster care. There were some happy times. Adoptions were the best days. B-E-S-T ever!”

“Were there difficult cases?” Thomas probes.

“They’re all difficult. Drugs. Abuse. Violence. Death. You name it. My job was to do whatever I could to protect the children. It was my calling, my sister’s, too. Some situations were so horrible, I’d lose sleep, have nightmares. Can’t un-see crime photos. Nope. Not possible. Best never to see them at all . . .” She falters, looks around the room like she’s searching for a word, memory, her mind, desperate to pluck it from the air.

“What kind of crime photos?” Thomas asks.

“Do I know you? Court is in recess. Where’s my clerk?”

I get up, look around, desperate to find something to create a bridge . . . but even if I could? Gabriella probably wouldn’t understand the messages.

“There were some cases impossible to forget,” Gabriella says, eyes still trained on the TV. “Alzheimer’s is especially brutal in that way, it has left me with the horrors. A brother and sister beaten by Mom’s boyfriend—one died, the other left paralyzed. Mom retained custody. The law is the law. A baby born addicted to crack, blind. Dad got custody, molested her when she was six months old. Mom killed the bastard. She went to prison for life. The law is the law. Little girls burned by cigarettes, placed in scalding water, chained to a radiator. Most of them ended up back with their abuser after court-appointed mommy and daddy classes. Those classes are BS in most cases. But the law is the law.” She rambles on, “Mom murdered, little girl stayed with her. A delivery guy noticed the smell, called the police. Media was on that one like buzzards to roadkill. Sometimes the law needs a swift kick in the a-s-s.”

A shrill voice demands, “What are you two doing here?”

Heidi’s eyes dash from me to Thomas and then to Gabriella, who has returned to the TV. In the bend of one arm is a silver pan of lasagna, hot from the oven; the smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese wafts into the room.

My body clenches. “We came to talk to your sister, or should I say the Honorable Judge Gabriella Bryant, about sealing my files.”

“Who are you, dear?” Gabriella asks.

Thomas interjects, “She’s Sylvie Peters.”

“You should be ashamed,” Heidi snaps. “My sister is in no condition to speak with you two. Briella was once an esteemed judge. What you’re doing could ruin her reputation! A reputation built on the unwavering desire to help children. Get out. Both of you.”