Concealed in Death (23 page)

“Okay.”

“Was she? A runaway?”

“Yeah.”

“And one of the girls who died.” Closing her eyes, Philadelphia laid her hand on the photo. “I should have gone after her, called CPS. I only thought of getting our girls back, and I didn’t follow through.”

“You couldn’t know,” Peabody began.

“It’s my work. I’m supposed to know. Shelby and Mikki, both of them were out of my hands when this happened to them. But some of the responsibility’s mine, isn’t it? Shelby deceived us, and she shouldn’t have been able to. We should have been more vigilant with her, but we were distracted, so excited by our good fortune we let her slip through. Now we have to live with that, with knowing that. Mikki, I don’t know what we could have done, but it feels like we could and should have been able to do something. Now they’re both gone. Both of them.”

She looked back down at the pictures, then sharply up again. “But not DeLonna. She’s not there. They were so close, the three of them. But she didn’t go with them. She stayed with us, stayed until she was sixteen.”

“But you don’t know where she is now?”

“No, and I admit, I expected, hoped, she’d keep in touch. Some of the children do, some of them don’t.”

“Did she ever ask about them? Ask to go see them or contact them?”

Philadelphia rubbed at her forehead. “It’s a lot to remember. I’ve been reviewing my notes from that time, trying to see how . . .”

She shook her head. “I noted that DeLonna withdrew for a while, claimed to be unwell. Natural enough, when two of her closest friends left.”

“Was she sick?” Eve asked.

“Lethargic, according to my notes, and my memory. Weepy, though she tried to hide that. In session, when I was able to get her to open up a little, she talked about being one of the bad girls. Everyone left her because she was bad; she didn’t have a real home, a real family because she was bad. We worked on her self-esteem. She had such a beautiful voice, I was able to use singing to bring her out a bit more. But she never bonded with any of the other girls in the same way. And, as I said, she withdrew, went into a kind of grieving, which was natural, expected. She spent her free time in her room, and was, well, too biddable if you understand me. She’d simply do whatever she was assigned, then go back into her shell. It took nearly a year before she seemed to resolve herself.”

“Didn’t you question the fact neither of her friends made an effort to see her, to hang with her?”

“Lieutenant, children can be self-absorbed and their world is often . . . immediate. It’s the here and now, so the bonds formed inside The Sanctuary, or now HPCCY, can be strong, lifelong, or they can be tenuous, situational bonds, that dissolve once the situation changes.”

“And you don’t follow up?”

She lifted her hands—short, neat, unpolished nails, no rings, no bracelets. “We’re a transitional home, and most often for a relatively short time. Often the children and their guardians prefer to leave that behind, start new. We don’t interfere.”

“So when they walk out the door, that’s it?”

By the way Philadelphia’s shoulders stiffened, the little barb struck a nerve. “We give the children in our care everything we can, physically, spiritually, emotionally. We do everything in our power to see that when they leave us, they leave in a better state, and go prepared to lead a productive, contented life. We feel deeply for them, Lieutenant, and on a professional level we understand they’re only ours for a short time, so we have to let go. For their well-being, and for our own.”

“But you interact with them every day, basically live with them.”

“That’s correct.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. My brother and I share duties, responsibilities. We founded both The Sanctuary and HPCCY together.”

“So you’re partners, in a sense.”

“Yes, in every sense.”

“But you’re the one with a business degree, with business management training.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So you deal with the finances.”

“At HPCCY, yes, primarily.”

“How did you let the other place tank so bad you literally walked away from it?”

The faintest color spread over her cheeks. “I’m not sure how this applies.”

“Everything applies.”

“We overextended,” Philadelphia said shortly. “Emotionally and financially. We simply believed in what we were doing, and wanted to do so much we neglected the practicalities. Actually, I got the management training during the last year we had The Sanctuary as we realized we were in trouble in that area.”

“So before that, you just fumbled along. What, hoping for a miracle?”

Both her eyes and her voice went very, very cool. “I understand not all believe in the power of prayer. We do, even when the answer to that prayer isn’t clear or seems hard. In the end, our miracle came. We’ve been able to help many more children, give them much more care, simply because we initially failed in a practical, business sense.”

“Who handled the finances at The Sanctuary—before you got the training?”

Philadelphia made a short, impatient sound. “Again, I don’t understand these questions. Nash did, for the most part. We were raised in a very traditional home. Our father earned the living, handled the money, the bills. Our mother kept the house. So we initially approached The Sanctuary with that dynamic. It was what we knew. But it became apparent to both of us that Nash simply wasn’t gifted with a real head for business. I was. We also believe in using our gifts, so I got further training. It was too late to save The Sanctuary, but we accept that was the plan.”

“Whose plan?”

“The higher power. We learned, we lost, we were given another chance, and we’ve succeeded.”

“Handy. So you handle the finances now.”

“For HPCCY, yes, along with our accountant.”

“You’d each handle your own personal finances?”

“Of course. Lieutenant—”

“Just getting a picture,” Eve interrupted. “What about your other brother?”

“Monty? Monty died.”

“In Africa. Fifteen years ago last month. I meant before he died. What was his function? What were his duties, responsibilities? His share?”

“He . . . assisted wherever he could. He enjoyed helping with meals, doing small repairs. He helped Brodie now and then.”

“You’re talking about scut work.”

Philadelphia’s eyebrows drew together to form that deep crease between them. “I don’t know what that means.”

“No real responsibilities, no real job. Just picking up lower-level chores.”

“Monty wasn’t trained to—”

“Why not? Why didn’t he get the training to be a partner, like you and your older brother?”

“I don’t understand why that matters? Our personal lives—”

“Are my business now.” Eve snapped it out so Philadelphia jerked in her chair. “Twelve girls are dead. It doesn’t matter if you understand the question. Answer it.”

“Come on, Dallas.” Playing her good cop role, Peabody soothed her way in. “We need to know,” she said to Philadelphia, “whatever we can know, so we can try to piece everything together. For the girls,” she added, nudging some of the pictures just a little closer to Philadelphia.

“I want to help, it’s just that . . . it’s painful to talk about Monty. He was the baby.” She sighed out the stiffness. “The youngest of us, and I suppose we all indulged him a little. More when our mother died.”

“Committed suicide.”

“Yes. It’s painful now, it was only more painful then for all of us. She simply wasn’t well, in her mind, in her spirit. She lost her faith, and took her life.”

“That’s a terrible thing for a family to go through,” Peabody said, gentle, gentle. “Even more, I think, for a family of faith. Your mother lost her faith.”

“I feel she lost her will to hold to that faith. She was ill, in her mind, in her heart.”

“Your father took a hard line on that,” Eve put in.

The flush returned, more temper than embarrassment this time, Eve thought. “This was, and is, a very personal tragedy. If he took a hard line, as you say, it was his grief, his great disappointment. My father’s faith is absolute.”

“And your mother’s wasn’t.”

“She was unwell.”

“She became unwell, or began treatment, shortly after giving birth to your youngest brother.”

“It was an unexpected and difficult pregnancy. And yes, it took a toll on her health.”

“Difficult and unexpected,” Eve repeated. “But she went through with it.”

Hands folded tightly on the table, Philadelphia spoke coolly. “While we respect the choices each individual makes, the termination of a pregnancy, except under the most extreme conditions, was not a choice for my mother, nor for those who share our beliefs.”

“All right. So an unexpected and difficult pregnancy, followed by clinical depression, anxiety, and ultimately self-termination.”

“Why do you make it sound so cold?”

“Those are the facts, Ms. Jones.”

“We don’t want to miss anything.” Peabody added the lightest touch of her hand on the back of Philadelphia’s. “He was still living at home at the time of your mother’s death, your younger brother?”

“Yes, he was only sixteen. He came to us—to Nash and me—a few months later, when our father sold the house, went on a mission. It was shortly after that we were able to buy the building on Ninth with our share, and begin The Sanctuary.”

“So young to lose his mom,” Peabody said, all sympathy. “He’d have been old enough to think about college, or practical skills training when you started The Sanctuary. I didn’t see anything in the file on that.”

“No. Monty had no drive to try college, or practical training, and honestly, no real aptitude—not for counseling or organization. He was good with his hands—that was his gift.”

“But no training there either.”

“He wanted to stay close to us, and we indulged that.”

“He’d had treatment for depression,” Eve added.

“Yes, he had.” Resentment shimmered again as she looked back at Eve. “What of it? It’s not a crime. Monty was an internal sort, more introverted than either Nash or I. When we were old enough to go on missions, or to seek more education, and our mother died, he became lonely and depressed. And help was sought and provided.”

“Introverted. So not much for interaction with the residents and staff, when he joined you at The Sanctuary.”

“As I said, when our father was called to mission, we took Monty with us, helped give him a purpose. He was somewhat shy, but enjoyed the children. In some ways, he was one of them. The Sanctuary was his home, too.”

“How did he feel about losing it?”

“It was difficult for him, frankly. It was his first place outside the parental home, one he considered his own—as we all did. He was, we all were, understandably upset. Failure is never easy to accept. But that failure opened a new door.”

“And right after you walked through the new door, you sent him to Africa. This shy, introverted younger brother.”

“The opportunity came. We felt Monty needed to expand his world. To, well, leave the nest. It was hard for me, to be honest, but it was a chance for him. A door for him.”

“Who arranged it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, ‘arranged.’ The missionary in Zimbabwe wanted to retire, to come home to his family. It was a chance for Monty to see some of the world, as both Nash and I had, and to see if he had a calling after all.”

“How’d he like it?”

“His e-mails were happy. He seemed to fall in love with Africa at first sight. I believe if he hadn’t been taken from us, he would have bloomed there. He’d found his place, and a calling I’d doubted. The condolences after his death spoke of his kindness, his compassion, his . . . joy. It’s both painful and freeing to know he’d found his joy before leaving us.”

“How often did you talk to him?”

“Talk? We didn’t. When first embarking on a mission, especially the very first on your own, it’s too easy to cling to home, to family or friends. For the first few months, it’s best to keep that contact somewhat limited so you can focus on the mission, consider that your home, your family. And serve them with a full heart.”

“Huh. Sounds like boot camp.”

She relaxed enough to smile a little. “I suppose it does, in a way.”

“How about him and Shelby? How did they get along?”

“Get along?”

“You said he was like one of the kids.”

“Yes, I just meant he was younger than Nash and myself, and younger in, well, spirit.”

“How did he get along with them, Shelby in particular?”

“He was particularly shy around girls, but he got along well enough. I’d say he might’ve been a bit intimidated by Shelby. She was a big, and sometimes abrasive, personality.”

“And with him being shy, and the little brother of the heads? I bet she took a few pokes at him. One way to get back at you, say, if you disciplined her or denied her, would be to poke at the most vulnerable.”

“She could be a bully, that’s true enough. Monty tended to give her a wide berth. He was more comfortable with the quieter residents. He did talk sports with T-Bone.” She smiled as she caught that flutter of memory. “I’d forgotten that. Monty loved sports, any kind at all. He and T-Bone would talk football, or baseball. Reeling off all those stats . . . I can’t understand how they remembered when they barely remembered to empty the recycler.”

“So he interacted regularly with one of Shelby’s crew.”

“He was more comfortable and confident around boys, men.”

“So no girlfriends?”

“No.”

“Boyfriends?”

She shifted in her chair now. “While our father wouldn’t have approved, both Nash and I would have been fine if Monty had developed a relationship with another young man. But I don’t think he was physically attracted to men. And he was, at that point, just too shy to pursue a relationship with a woman.”

“Girls might’ve been easier.”

It took a moment, then Philadelphia’s puzzled frown turned into the fire of outrage. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“A shy guy, little to no social networking, homeschooled, indulged, as you said, and at the same time restricted. No serious responsibilities, a lot of time on his hands. And a house full of young girls—some of them, like Shelby, willing to exchange sex for favors.”