Lisa Scottoline - Look Again

Comcast, PECO, a web hosting site, old Filofax sheets with rubber bands, and dues invoices for various bar associations. Still no client files, and Ellen started to worry. She closed the lid and moved to the last box, which reminded her of a joke her father used to tell:

Why is the thing you're looking for always in the last place you look? Because after you find it, you stop looking.

She opened the box and looked inside. It was a hodgepodge of bills, stray invoices, reminders for continuing legal-education courses, and more legal pads. She started rummaging, then all of a sudden, spotted a letter from Karen to her, notifying her about Will's adoption hearing.

Bingo!

She felt her heart start to pound and kept searching, shuffling papers aside until she came across a printed email from her to Karen, asking questions about adoption procedures. She rummaged further, spotted some newsprint, and pulled it out excitedly. It was the front page of the Features section, and on the bottom right was Ellen's piece on Will's adoption. The headline read, HAPPY ENDING, and on the right was the photo of Will, looking so sick. She dug back into the box, and at the very bottom lay a manila folder. She grabbed it and read the label.

Gleeson, Ellen.

"Yay!" She tore it open, but it was empty, which is when she realized that the contents of her file folder were mixed up with the other papers.

"Did you get lucky?" asked a voice from the door, and she looked up to see Musko in the threshold. His jacket was off, his tie gone, and he'd pushed up his shirtsleeves. He entered the study and sat down tiredly in the leather chair across from his desk.

"Sort of." Ellen held up the empty folder. "This is my file, but the papers are scattered all over the box."

"That's Karen. She wasn't the most organized person in the world. In fact, she was messy."

Don't speak ill. "The files in the garage were neat."

"That was her secretary's doing. They were made for each other." Musko leaned over and plucked Ellen's article from her hand, eyeing it. "You know, it wasn't too long after this article appeared that she was dead."

"When was it that she died, if I can ask?"

"July 13." Musko's smile vanished, and his crow's-feet deepened. He handed the article back. "Her secretary found her at her desk when she came in that morning."

"That was about a month after Will's adoption was final, on June 15. The article ran about two weeks after that." Ellen paused, puzzled. "I'm surprised I didn't hear. I paid my final bill, and the office didn't send me a letter that she was dead. I didn't even see an obit."

"I didn't run one. I kept it quiet, for the kids' sake. The funeral was just family. The neighbors know from the gossip mill, but I never told them." Musko gestured down the hall. "I still haven't told the boys how she really died, just that she got sick."

"Didn't they ask questions?" Ellen asked, surprised. She was thinking of Will, the question machine.

"Yes, but I just said she was sick and we didn't know it, then she died."

Ellen kept her own counsel. She'd made it a policy always to be honest with W. She even felt bad lying to him about Santa Claus, but no child should have to live in a world without magic.

"I know, it was probably wrong, but what do you say, hey, guys, Mommy went to work today and put a gun in her mouth?"

Suddenly Ellen wished she could leave. The conversation was turning creepy, and she'd liked Musko better in the garage.

"Didn't mean to spring that on you." He laughed, but it sounded bitter. "How did she do it?" That's the thing everybody wants to know. Gas, gun, pills? The cops told me it was unusual for a woman to use a gun. I told them, "But this woman is a lawyer."

Ellen stiffened. "I'm sure it's hard to deal with."

"You're damn right it is. They say suicide is selfish, and for once, they're right." Musko jerked a thumb behind him. "I got three kids who pray for her every night. What kind of mother abandons her kids like that? They were babies then. Rory was two."

"We can never really understand why people do the things they do." Ellen was trying to say something comforting but knew she sounded like a Hallmark card, or Yoda.

"Oh, I know why she did it. She did it because I caught her having an affair."

"Really?" Ellen said, shocked.

"He called her at the house one night, and I picked up. Then she went out and didn't get back until after midnight. She said she was at the gym, but it was the same night they had an electrical fire." Musko snorted. "She was getting her workout from her boyfriend."

Ellen didn't like the cruel twist to Musko's lips. She rose to go, but it didn't stop him from continuing.

"I confronted her, and she admitted it. She had to, I knew there was something going on. She'd been acting funny, moody. Anyway, she said she would stop seeing him, but I told her I wanted a divorce, that I'd fight her over the kids, too." Musko stopped abruptly, as if he'd just heard himself. "The next morning was, you know, when she did it." He leaned over, resting his head on his elbow, and began rubbing his eyes. "I quit therapy, but I better get back in, huh?"

"I'm sure it would help."

"So they say." Musko looked at her, then rose slowly. "You found the papers you needed?"

"Well, they're in the box somewhere but I didn't get a chance to go through and see which papers are mine."

"Then take the whole box. Take all three, for all I care. Take them with you."

"What if there's things in there you want?"

Musko waved her off. "I don't need anything in those boxes. I should get rid of the ones in the garage, too. I should just burn the damn things."

Ellen realized then why the dead files were still in the garage. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend the money on a storage space. It was that he wanted to keep them and he wanted to burn them, both at once.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll send you back what's not mine." She put a lid on the third box, shutting its secrets inside.

At least until she got home.

The night was starless and black, and the windows dark mirrors that reflected Ellen at her dining-room table, sifting through the contents of the third box, sitting next to a glass of emergency merlot. Oreo Figaro sat in his spot at the far end of the table, watching with a disapproving eye.

She set aside bills and legal pads, then pulled out the papers that should have been in her file and read each one as she put them in chronological order, oldest to most recent, re-creating Will's adoption file. There was printed email correspondence to Karen and from the home-study people, who had come to see the house and interview Ellen before the adoption was finalized. She went back to the box, shoved aside pencils and a half pack of gum, and unearthed another typed letter to Karen, this one printed in a larger font, on thin paper. She read it with a start:

Amy Martin 393 Corinth Lane Stoatesville, PA

Dear Karen,

Here are the papers you asked me to get signed. They are from the baby's father and he says he will give up his rights to the baby. Please make sure the woman who wants to adopt him takes good care of him. He's a good baby, and it's not his fault he's fussy and sick. I love him but I know this is what is the best thing for him and I will remember him always and keep him in my prayers.

Sincerely, Amy

Ellen's heart thundered in her chest, and she read the letter again, feeling a tingle just holding it in her hands. It was from Will's birth mother, who had held this paper, had written this note, and had printed it out. So her name was Amy Martin. She sounded so sweet, and her pain in putting Will up for adoption came through even her simple lines. It was all Ellen could do not to pick up the phone and call her, but instead, she reached for her wine and raised her glass in a silent toast.