“I have my reasons. Look! That’s the number 27 bus.”
It took nearly twenty minutes of lurching stops and nondescript townscape before they reached the hall of records, which was also, ominously, the end of the line.
“Everyone off,” the bus driver said.
“Everyone” was Riley and JD, and they did as they were told, blinking into the heavy sunshine as it glared off the enormous white-washed walls of the Granite Cay Hall of Records.
JD grabbed the door and swung it open for Riley. “Farming records await,” he said, ushering her inside.
The nervous flutter was back, shooting through Riley’s belly. She felt the coffee churn and prayed she wouldn’t throw up. The hospital was a dead end. But this will be it, she told herself. This is where all the records are.
Riley stepped in and waited for JD, who let the door go behind her. “Hey.” She caught the door before it closed and poked her head out. “Aren’t you coming in?”
“I thought it was boring family stuff for Jane. You know, like at the hospital.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
Riley’s heart thundered in time with the butterfly wings batting in her gut.
I’m not into JD—not at all, she told herself. It was nice to have him on the train and nicer still that he came out to make sure I didn’t end up taking a train to hell or the end of the world, but suddenly she felt a little naked, a little alone—and a little uncomfortable.
“I was just asking.”
JD held her eye for a beat then flipped open his notebook and sat on the heavy cement wall outside. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Riley stepped into the hall of records, and the glass door snapped shut behind her. Like a mausoleum door. The thought was fleeting, and she convinced herself it was due to the white marble floors in front of her and the ornate stucco décor on the walls rather than the sudden feeling of breathlessness. Her chest was tight and her blood ran hot and heavy through her limbs.
Riley followed the signs to the help desk, her heels clacking on the marble, the sound reverberating through the halls in vague echoes. Her lips were pressed together, and she realized she was holding her breath. She shook herself and put on her warmest smile.
“Hello,” Riley said to the woman behind the help desk. “I’m looking for some records regarding a baby that was born in this town? It was eighteen years ago and—”
The woman didn’t look up from her magazine. “Mmm hmmm.”
“I checked Granite Cay Hospital—where the girl was born—and they said to come here. This is her birth certificate.” Riley unfolded the paper, smoothing it against the desk, and pushed it to the woman. The woman looked up, her dark eyes scanning Riley, then the page.
“Is this you?”
“No, but—”
“She family?”
Riley had seen enough television to know that family were generally the only people privy to this kind of information so she nodded, trying her best to look totally nonchalant. “Yep. Jane is my sister.”
The woman scanned the birth certificate one more time, and then scanned Riley as if there was any connection to be made between the two. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Just some record—where she lived, where she moved. That kind of thing.”
The woman arched an eyebrow and Riley rushed on. “We—um—were adopted. Split up. My mother did drugs and we have different fathers and hers wasn’t around so…” She forced a quaver in her voice and tried to remember the speech she had heard on some Lifetime movie about boxcar children or orphans or something. “I just want to find her so we can put our family back together.”
Riley blinked back tears and saw the desk woman soften. “Oh, that’s so sad. Well, where she lived could be public record in the census. You don’t know who adopted her?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But I figured since I had her birth certificate, maybe there would be another copy here and that would tell me more.”
Desk woman nodded. “It could.” She pointed. “Go right back there. If it’s only—what, eighteen years ago—it should be on the computers. If not, you can try the stacks. Otherwise, there’s the microfiche, but she seems much too young to be there.”
Riley licked her lips. “What about newspaper articles? I—I, uh, think I remember someone saying something about a big crime spree about the time she was born. Bank robbery or something.” Riley was almost nervous about how easy it was becoming to fabricate a backstory for Jane.
“The stacks. If you need to photocopy anything, it’s twenty-five cents a page, or ten cents a page to print anything out. Good luck.”
Riley refolded the birth certificate and held herself back from running toward the computers and stacks.