“Can’t afford her. Too sickly. Never stops crying,” the report had read. They hadn’t said where they’d adopted her from and had marched out without looking back.

“Thank you, Lord,” Leah whispered. “Thank you for leading them to a good orphanage.”

She simply had to find the blessings, even in the bleakest conditions.

A clicking sound, and Leah looked toward the circulation desk. Nothing. But the service club next door was open until ten thirty, so soldiers would be milling around outside. That must have been what she heard.

Leah perused the final chapters, but the book hadn’t helped. None had. Was finding her sisters a hopeless quest?

Callie. Polly. She remembered their sweet baby faces.

In third grade, Leah had read a book about Greek mythology in the school library and had seen her own name among the muses. If her parents had named her Thalia, after the muse of idyllic poetry and comedy, was it possible they’d named the twins Calliope and Polyhymnia, after the muses of epic and sacred poetry?

Even if it weren’t true, the idea captured Leah’s imagination.

She turned in her composition book to the poem she was writing. It needed one more stanza, but the words evaded her.

Three muses dance, their hands entwined

A circle of love, as one.

Thalia laughs, an idyllic song

Of earth and fields and home.

Calliope calls, an epic ballad

Of valor and heroes and might.

Polyhymnia chants, a sacred hymn

Of praise and truth and faith.

Still no final stanza. Leah leaned back in her chair and stretched.

Odd. The door to the storage room behind the circulation desk stood open, and the light was on. They always kept the door closed, since Miss Mayhew said it gave the library a neater appearance. And Leah had a lifelong habit of turning off lights upon leaving a room.

This time she must have forgotten. Perhaps she was more tired than she realized.

After she shelved the book, she crossed the library to the circulation desk. She swung open the half door in the desk, stepped inside the storage room, and switched off the light.

A hand slapped over her mouth. She cried out, muffled by rough, digging fingers.

Someone yanked her left arm behind her back. Pain exploded in her shoulder, and she tried to scream.

“One sound and you die.”

Her eyes burned with tears. The man stank of musk and onions and beer. The scent of a wolf.

Gene Mayer sang “The Girl I Love to Leave Behind” as he and Clay left the service club, where they’d watched the movie Stage Door Canteen.

“The Army was a good choice for you, G. M. You’re killing that song.”

“Ha. You’re just jealous ’cause I’ve got a girl to leave behind.” In the pale moonlight, Gene grinned. “Saturday I’m asking Betty Jo to marry me.”