Chapter 2
The second girl was named Sophie Lane.
Four years old.
Daughter of a housekeeper who worked one of the Hawthorne properties.
Margaret had seen Sophie at a Christmas dinner eight months earlier wearing Emily’s red holiday coat.
Same ribbons.
Same pendant.
Same name.
Emily.
At first Margaret thought Isadora was confused.
Then Sophie cried and said:
“My name is Sophie.”
Exactly like Ottilie.
I looked toward the portrait.
Different dress.
Same pendant.
Not memorial.
Uniform.
“What happened after Christmas?”
Margaret swallowed.
“She disappeared from the dinners.”
Isadora interrupted.
“Her mother quit.”
Margaret looked at her.
“No.”
Interesting.
The older woman had found courage now.
“Her mother was dismissed.”
Rupert snapped:
“Enough.”
I turned.
“No.”
My voice dropped.
“Now we start.”
I had every guest remain.
Not prisoners.
Witnesses.
Anyone who wanted to leave could leave after giving me their name and telling me whether they had seen another child dressed as Emily.
Seven people remembered Sophie.
Three remembered another.
A girl named Lila.
Five years old.
Seen at a spring garden luncheon one year before Sophie.
Blue dress.
Pendant.
Called Emily.
One remembered Isadora correcting her posture.
Another remembered Rupert introducing her as “our little girl.”
I stared at him.
“How many?”
His face finally cracked.
“Three.”
Ottilie.
Sophie.
Lila.
Isadora whispered:
“Four.”
Rupert turned sharply.
The room changed again.
I looked at her.
“Who was fourth?”
She started crying.
Not the theatrical grief she used around Emily’s portrait.
Real fear.
“June.”
“Surname?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer chilled me.
“How do you dress a child in your daughter’s clothes without knowing her last name?”
Isadora covered her mouth.
Rupert answered instead.
“She came through St. Agnes.”
I knew the name.
A private residential home supported by several old families.
Not an orphanage exactly.
Temporary placements.
Children between relatives.
Parents in recovery.
Families in crisis.
A place vulnerable enough that rich people could call interference charity.
My stomach turned.
“How old?”
“Six.”
Emily’s age when she died.
Of course.
“What happened to June?”
Neither answered.
I looked at Ottilie.
Her pendant.
Her dress.
Then back at Isadora.
“You didn’t choose girls who reminded you of Emily.”
May you like
I stepped closer.
“You chose girls who were easy to borrow.”
