The Broken Girls(46)

“Okay,” he said. “Can I visit you again?”

She said yes, and he shook her hand and left. She took the radio back to her room and slid it under her mattress in its box, thinking she would forget about it, that she would never listen to it. I don’t need his stupid radio, she thought. But late that night, when all the girls were in their nightgowns and lying in bed, she rolled over and looked down at Katie on the bunk below her. “I got a present today,” she said, unable to help herself. Unable to stop herself from trying to please Katie, with her pretty black hair and mischievous tilted eyes.

Katie yawned, as if presents were old news. “What is it?”

“A radio.”

“That’s a lie,” Katie said immediately.

“It isn’t,” CeCe said. She was smiling now. Maybe the radio would be useful after all. “My half brother came to Family Visit Day and brought it for me. He bought it. He has money.”

“If you had a radio,” Roberta said from her bunk across the room, “we’d be able to see it. Radios are big.”

“Not this one.”

Katie was watching her steadily from her witch dark eyes. “Fine, then,” she said. “Show us.”

So CeCe pulled the box out from beneath her mattress and climbed down. She took out the radio, flipped the switch, and rotated the dial, just as Joseph had shown her. “We can listen to music and everything,” she said. “The news. Joseph said there are concerts.”

The other girls got out of bed and huddled around, even Sonia, all four of them in white nightgowns like ghosts. “Keep the volume low,” Roberta whispered, her braid flung over her shoulder. “If Susan Brady hears, she’ll take it.”

They were silent. CeCe turned the dial, and a twist of noise came out of the little box, a spike of unintelligible static. Then there were voices.

“What do you say, Charlie?”

“I don’t say much!”

“That’s not what I said. I say, Charlie, what do you say?”

“What’s that?” Sonia whispered. “A radio show?” The voices drifted away, and CeCe turned the dial again. Violin music rose over the static and wafted tinnily through the room.

“Bach,” Sonia said.

It was the last word they spoke for a long time. As the cold descended and the wind howled outside, they sat cross-legged and rapt, staring at the small square of metal and plastic in the center of their circle, listening. CeCe thought about the world far away, waves through the air moving through the little box and turning into music. About her brother traveling back to Baltimore, her unknown sisters somewhere out there. She did not think about her mother’s arms pushing her under the water. It’s all out there, she thought. If only I could go.





Chapter 15


Barrons, Vermont

November 2014

Fiona arrived at Margaret Eden’s home at Mitchell Place, a gated community of expensive townhomes built during the boom years before the 2008 crash. Even then, the neighborhood’s existence had hinged more on hope than on actual local wealth; there wasn’t much demand for “executive” homes for wealthy professionals in Barrons, and the houses had taken years longer to complete than planned.

Now Mitchell Place was stuck between the wishes of its few remaining residents and the reality of a community with not enough tenants. The homes were well kept, but the security guard at the entrance gate was a cheap rental from a local outfit in a polyester uniform, and the sign on his booth clearly stated that the gate was manned only by camera and alarm systems after seven p.m. The weeds on the grass leading up to the gate were overgrown, and past the wrought iron, Fiona could see the covered remains of a pool, drained and empty this time of year and possibly not reopening come summer.

Margaret Eden’s door, however, was opened by a maid—a white girl in an immaculate uniform, her hair pinned back. Anthony must have called ahead, because the maid let Fiona in. The front hall was marble, its small confines chill and harsh, and Fiona felt like the wayward help as she handed the maid her coat. She rolled up her hat and shoved it into the sleeve of her coat self-consciously before the maid took it away.

She was led into a parlor, also marble. It was empty except for a few pieces of furniture in stark modern style. There was no sign of Margaret Eden, so Fiona circulated through the room, using her journalist’s instincts without thinking. There were no books, no clutter. No personal items lying around. On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Anthony, much younger, wearing a graduation cap and gown and smiling. There was a second photo, this one of a man with distinguished white hair, obviously Anthony’s father, standing on a golf course.

“So you’re Fiona.”

Fiona turned to see an elderly woman standing behind her. She wore a collared white blouse and slacks, a dark green cardigan over her shoulders. Her white hair was cut short and curled. She looked like a grandmother, except she stood as straight and elegant as a reed, her sharp gaze fixed on Fiona. She gave Fiona an up-and-down once-over that was blatant and assessing.

“Mrs. Eden,” Fiona said.

“I’m Margaret,” the older woman corrected her. “And you were at Idlewild.” She held up a hand. “Of course Anthony told me. He’s never been able to keep a secret from me in his life.”