The Ledger
The new girl's name was Dot, and she lasted four days before Vesta sent her "somewhere better suited," which was what she always said right before a kid disappeared from the house for good.
I didn't ask questions. Asking questions got you a room with no dinner, or worse. But that night, with everyone asleep, curiosity got the better of me anyway.
Vesta's office was really just a converted pantry off the kitchen, door always locked, key always looped through her belt. Except that night, for once, she'd left it hanging in the door.
I told myself I'd just look.
The room smelled like paper and old coffee. A filing cabinet stood against the wall, and on top of it sat a green ledger book, corners soft with handling. I opened it under a sliver of hallway light.
Names. Pages and pages of names, dates, dollar amounts — kids I recognized, kids I didn't. My own name was there: Toby Marsh, arrived March, monthly subsidy $612. Pip's name. Birdie's. Dot's, crossed out with today's date.
But then I turned a page and found names from a whole different list — kids I'd never heard of, addresses in towns I'd never heard of either. Underneath one entry, someone had written a name that wasn't Vesta's.
D. Aldrich — 4 children — Ridgefield County.
I stared at it. Vesta didn't live in Ridgefield County. She'd never mentioned anyone named Aldrich.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I slammed the ledger shut and spun around, heart slamming against my ribs — but it was only the house settling, the way old houses do at night. Still, my hands were shaking as I set the ledger back exactly where I'd found it, edges squared to the dust marks on the cabinet.
I didn't understand what I'd seen. Not yet. But I understood enough to know it was the kind of secret that got people sent away.
I just didn't know yet that it might be me.