Page 42 of Tangled Past
Ms. Donnelly logged into her system. “We’ll start with what’s recorded online. I’ll need your legal name.” She glanced up. “Maya Callahan, correct?”
Maya nodded. “That’s correct.”
Ms. Donnelly’s fingers clicked over the keyboard. “The final adoption decree is here,” Ms. Donnelly said. “Which is good. That means everything after placement was processedproperly.” She stopped. “That’s strange. I don’t see anything about the birth mother or parents whatever the case might have been at the time.”
Maya swallowed. “My birth mother’s name is Vanessa Warren. There’s nothing in the file about her?”
Ms. Donnelly frowned. “Let me try that name.” She typed it in. “Nothing. Maybe a variation.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “Still nothing.” She sat back slowly, worry lining her face. “We should have something on the birth mother. A child doesn’t enter the adoption system without some notation about why. Even emergency placements have documentation. A social worker must complete it within forty-eight hours. There’s a notation about you being in the hospital when you met your adopted parents, and somehow you remembered your name as Maya, but nothing else.” Ms. Donnelly stood abruptly. “Let me check the physical archive. What’s on the computer is just a synopsis of what should be in the actual physical file.”
Asa pushed from his chair and pulled Maya up beside him. “We’re coming with you.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Yes, it’s this way.” She led them all down a long corridor before stepping into the archive room, which hummed with a dehumidifier, cold and sterile. Rows of metal drawers lined the walls.
Will, JT, and Rachel filed in after Asa and Maya.
“Intakes from your timeframe are in this cabinet,” Ms. Donnelly said, unlocking it. She pulled open the drawer for the appropriate year. Manila folders sat in neat alphabetical rows with numbers handwritten at the top of each tab. She flipped through several, muttering as she scanned.
Her movements slowed. Stopped. She touched an empty half-inch gap between folders. “There’s nothing here, and there should be a physical file here,” she muttered. “And your case number is missing.”
“How is that possible?” Maya asked in disbelief.
“I don’t know. We do not skip numbers. Yours is missing.” She checked the next drawer, then the one above it. Nothing. Her face paled. “Someone removed the physical file. What we have on the computer is everything.”
“Could it be misfiled?” Maya asked.
“No. This case number should sit between two others. Everything is sequential…and this gap wasn’t here during our last audit.”
“When was that?” JT asked.
Ms. Donnelly glanced his way. “Five years ago.”
The file had been removed deliberately.
“Were you working here back then?” Maya asked.
She confirmed she was. “But I wasn’t in charge. That was Kathy Zalansky.”
“Maybe she can tell us more about how this happened,” Asa suggested.
Ms. Donnelly’s expression saddened. “I don’t think so. She died from a heart attack not long after that time.”
Another mysterious death. They were mounting.
Ms. Donnelly grabbed a battered ledger from the top shelf. “Each intake is recorded manually before the paper file is created.” She flipped through pages until she reached the missing number. “There,” she whispered, then frowned. “That’s strange. There’s no signature. I have no idea who logged this in or why the physical folder is missing. It’s as if someone wanted to erase every official trace of this child’s origin, and they succeeded except for what’s on the computer. I’m guessing they couldn’t get to it; otherwise, it would be gone as well.”
“Do you have anywhere else it might be?” Asa asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Ms. Donnelly said sadly. “You existed in our system. You came through our doors, but someone made sure your past never followed you forward.”
Asa touched Maya’s arm. “You remembered your name back then, and now you’ve remembered your mother’s,” he said quietly. “Thatis the one thing that can’t be erased.”
She struggled against shedding tears before nodding.
“And now we know,” Asa continued, his voice low yet fierce. “Someone destroyed records to keep her hidden. That tells us more than a file ever would.”
