The Wrong Girl

5

Niall Brannigan strode up the front walk of Brannigan Family and Children Services, cataloging mistakes. No one had deadheaded the decorative mums along the garden path. Now some were rotting and brown. Such a waste of money. Such a poor public image. No one left tomorrow until those were gone. A fine mist lifted from the snowy grass, the last of the afternoon’s light disappearing. Still light enough to see a litany of annoyances.

Fallen twigs and branches, pine needles strewn across the flagstones, patches of ice on the cobbles. What, the whole grounds crew was surprised it was winter? His polished wing tips, protected by stretchy rubbers, marched through the slush.

“Ridiculous.” He said it aloud, swiping his plastic pass card through the new gadget mounted beside the front door. His father would have cringed, someone screwing holes in the wood Mother told him had come over on the Mayflower. Brannigan allowed himself the day’s first smile. Doubtful. But a useful and effective story.

A bell pinged, a green light appeared, and he clicked open the door. Inside, only the night lights lit the dusky hallway. The place was closed Sundays-he’d come here after afternoon mass-but as executive director, he liked to confirm all was well. Organize a few files, the mail, the upcoming schedule. See what new children were arriving. And departing. Ardith wasn’t waiting at home, but probably at her precious yoga, as always. Thank heaven for liberated spouses.

He wiped his feet on the bristly reed doormat, loosened his striped muffler, and began to unbutton his overcoat.

An office light shone down the hall. On?

Yes. On. A dull glow came through the narrow pane of one of the admin offices. Someone was here? He reached for his cell phone. Should he call 911? The second smile of the day curved his lips. Unnecessary.

The front door had been locked. So had the back, since no alarms clanged. Not a breakin. All he had to do was check the fancy computer scan on his fancy new lock machine, and he’d instantly know who was here, when they got here, and which door they used. No one had cleared overtime with him. Whoever was working today was doing it on their own time. And without pay.

He folded his gloves into a pocket, then crossed his arms, contemplating the closed office doors lining the carpeted hallway. One wall was all photographs, a calculatedly impressive gallery of silver-framed infants and toddlers and the occasional preteen. Their “wall of fame,” they explained to first-time visitors. Privately the staff called it their “family jewels.” Children were the Brannigan’s profit center, even though the service was a properly registered non-profit. Their “profit” was making families, he often explained, not only the money. Although the money was lovely.

Brannigan sniffed, cleared his head of random thoughts. At sixty-seven some thought he should retire, turn the place over to-whoever. Not going to happen. But who was here? Door number one, admin, closed, no light. The second door, bursar, closed, no light. The third door, History and Records, Munson’s office, no light there, either. His own office door, at the end, was still bathed in darkness, as it should be, a single pin spot illuminating his brass nameplate.

The fourth door. Closed as well, but a spill of orange glowed through the window and under the door. Lillian Finch’s office.

Brannigan sniffed again. He might have predicted as much.

What had Mother always said? You can’t know too much about your employees.

He knew enough about Lillian Finch to know exactly where she was. And as a result, he could predict exactly who was poaching Lillian’s office on an illicit Sunday afternoon. Did she think he wouldn’t find out? And now, he had a decision to make.