“The kids like to leave their mark,” Melissa said.
Natalie slowly scanned the wooden board above her again, and without a word Melissa, seeming to sense what Natalie was trying to do, stepped over to another bunk, checking the plywood on that bed for Brooke’s name. When neither of them found it, each moved to a different bunk. Natalie was just about to give up when Melissa spoke. “Here she is.” She pointed to a spot above where she sat, and Natalie quickly joined her. Melissa stood up, leaving Natalie to look at the spot where the younger woman had pointed. It took her a minute to find her sister’s name, but when she did, she reached up and slowly traced her index finger over the gouged wood, the muscles in her throat thickening. “Brooke Walker,” her sister had carved in jagged letters. “Here too fucking long.”
“Wow,” Natalie said, and her eyes blurred with tears. The fact that her sister had sat in that exact spot—that she’d taken the time to make sure there was evidence of her existence in that space—hit Natalie hard. She couldn’t imagine the life of a young girl in these surroundings: sharing a room with seven likely revolving-door strangers, sleeping on a thin mattress with a flat pillow and a stiff, scratchy blanket. Having no one to tuck her in at night. Nothing to make her feel treasured and safe.
“Miss Dottie should be free by now,” Melissa said. “And I have a meeting I need to attend pretty soon . . .”
“Oh,” Natalie said, standing up and wiping her cheeks with the back of her bent wrist. “Of course. Sorry.”
“No need,” Melissa said. “I’m happy to help.” She led Natalie to the end of the hallway and down another set of stairs, then turned a corner and pushed open a pair of black swinging doors. The room was set up with multiple rectangular tables and metal benches. To their right was a large, square open space in the wall, and through it, Natalie could see four women working in the kitchen. One of them stood off to the side with a clipboard in her hand. She was a tall woman with a sturdy-looking build and olive skin. Her silvery black hair was pushed down beneath a net, and she wore a bright red chef’s coat, white sneakers, and jeans.
“Miss Dottie!” Melissa called out, and the woman left the kitchen and came to stand in front of Natalie. “This is Natalie Clark,” she said, and quickly explained why Natalie was there.
The older woman listened with her head cocked to one side, still holding her clipboard, and then looked at Natalie. “What did you say your sister’s name was?”
“Brooke Walker,” Natalie said. “Melissa said you might remember her?”
“I’ll let you two have a chat,” Melissa said. “Thanks, Dottie. And good luck, Natalie. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Natalie thanked her, and Melissa turned and left the room.
“Let’s sit,” Miss Dottie said, gesturing toward one of the tables. “I’m just about ready to retire, so I have to practice not being on my feet all damn day.” She cackled, and Natalie smiled politely. The two of them sat and Miss Dottie set her clipboard down. “Now. Brooke Walker . . . Brooke Walker.” She squinted her eyes and repeated Natalie’s sister’s name a few more times, as though she were fingering her way through a cabinet in her head, looking for the right file. “When you say she aged out, again?”
“Nineteen ninety-four,” Natalie repeated, wondering if there was any point in having this conversation. She imagined thousands of children coming and going from this facility over the past thirty-some years. How could Miss Dottie remember a single face? “She stopped being sent to foster homes when she turned fourteen and stayed here all four years of high school.”
“Ah!” Miss Dottie said, loudly enough that it startled Natalie. “I remember. Dark curls, pretty eyes. So blue they almost look purple.”
Just like Hailey’s, Natalie thought. Her pulse quickened.
“If I recall,” Miss Dottie continued, “her and that wild girl, Zora Herzog, talked about getting a place together when they left. They were the same age, but Zora’d only been here two years before she turned eighteen.”
“She and Brooke were friends?” Natalie asked, feeling excited but a little wary at Miss Dottie’s use of the adjective “wild” to describe Zora.
“I wouldn’t say friends, exactly,” Miss Dottie said. “More like they happened to be leaving at the same time and needed someone to split rent with.”
Natalie considered this before speaking again. “You said Zora was wild. How so?”
“Oh, you know,” Miss Dottie said, waving a dismissive hand around in front of her face. “The kind of girl that they’d probably put on some kind of drug now. She was a hyper little thing. Loud, too.”
“Was Brooke the same way?”