Without a Brew

by Ellie Alexander

  I read on and found a number of articles about Chloe’s drowning. There were even a few videos. One was filmed at the high school on the day after the police recovered her body. Guidance counselors were on hand to support students in their grief, and one of the students they interviewed was a sobbing Lily.

  I recognized her immediately, despite her change in appearance. She had the same doe-like eyes and almost skittish look.

  “How are you and your classmates taking the news?” a reporter asked her, shoving a microphone in her face.

  Lily tried to speak through her tears but couldn’t get any words out.

  A young man came up behind her. “Chloe and Lily were best friends. Leave her alone. She doesn’t want to talk right now.”

  I squinted and scooted my chair closer to the screen. Unless my eyes were tricking me, the guy who rescued Lily was none other than Taylor.

  * * *

  I clicked PAUSE on the video. The library was empty aside from a mom reading to her two children in the nook with floor pillows and Legos tucked between the shelves of books for young readers. I was grateful for the solitude. This felt important.

  Taylor had lied. He definitely knew Lily, and he must have known her well in high school to have jumped in and saved her from the press. He had made it sound like he could barely remember who she was. This video was proof otherwise.

  Sure, I knew that for many people (myself included), high school was nothing more than a blip on the radar. I doubted I would be able to recognize the majority of my classmates today, but the situation with Taylor was different. He couldn’t have graduated from high school more than ten years ago, so his memories would likely be much fresher, and there was the glaring issue of a classmate’s death. You didn’t forget memories like that. Maybe you forgot the name of the captain of the football team or your biology teacher, but you didn’t forget a tragic death.

  Impossible.

  Those early memories of our own mortality become etched in our memory. The question was what was his motivation for lying?

  Could it have to do with Lily’s murder, or had seeing her triggered painful memories? Maybe it had been too much for him. Maybe he had tried to bury memories of the past and Lily brought them to the surface again.

  I read through a few more articles before printing three of the most thorough and logging off the library computer.

  Before I went to pick Sally up at the train station, I wanted to swing by the police station and let Chief Meyers know about Chloe’s death. My guess was that she was already aware. Her team of officers was likely already looking into the connection, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I offloaded the information to the professionals.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  AT THE POLICE STATION, I left a note for Chief Meyers. The officer on desk duty told me that she had gone to Spokane to follow a lead.

  “Does it have anything to do with the death of a high school girl about ten years ago?” I asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose any details related to the investigation.” The officer’s canned response didn’t surprise me. Nor did I blame him.

  “I understand. Can you pass this along to the chief when she returns?”

  “With pleasure.” He placed the articles I had printed in the chief’s in-box.

  Nervous energy pulsed through my body, making my fingertips tingle and my throat scratchy as I drove to Icicle Station. I could hear the train’s distant whistle before it appeared on the snowy tracks. My heart thumped as I hurried to wait for Sally to disembark. The station is actually just a long platform with a couple of benches and a row of antique streetlamps. A small cedar cabin served as a heated waiting area for passengers until the shuttle to town arrived. The station is located on the outskirts of the village. It’s about a mile walk to the shops, which makes for a nice stroll in the summer when the weather is warm and the light lingers, but in the winter the train station feels quite remote.

  April had been instrumental in convincing Amtrak to make the trek from Seattle to our village once a day. In the early 2000s, she’d been part of the mayor’s campaign to bring rail service to Leavenworth in an attempt to bolster tourism. The daily train had been a huge success. It ran at full capacity during busy festival weekends, and many travelers took the train for a visually stunning day trip through the Cascade Mountains and Snoqualmie Pass.

  Since it was the start of the week, the train wasn’t crowded. I spotted Sally before she saw me. She stepped down from the train wearing a practical knee-length slate gray jacket, jeans, and sturdy boots. Her thick-framed black glasses were propped at the edge of her nose as she surveyed the platform.

  “Sally!” I called, waving to her.

  Her face broke into a wide smile. We greeted each other with a long embrace.

  “How was the ride?” I asked, reaching to carry her suitcase.

  “Absolutely gorgeous.” Her wiry gray curls were cut short, accentuating her heart-shaped face. “Talk about scenery. I had a window seat and spent the entire ride drinking in the lush mountain landscapes. I counted at least a dozen frozen waterfalls and even saw a herd of winter elk, which I know is rare.”

  “How wonderful.” I made way for a group of skiers unloading their skis, poles, and gear. “Are you hungry? We can go get a bite to eat or just head to my house.”

  “I ate on the train.” Sally sounded almost sheepish. “It was such a luxurious experience. I ordered a glass of wine and a surprisingly good plate of chicken piccata. Talk about dinner with a view.”

  “That sounds divine.” I lifted her suitcase and headed for the car. “I hope you saved room for dessert. I made my famous German chocolate cake.”

  “Lucky me.” She squeezed my hand. “We have little time and much to discuss. A slice of your cake sounds like heaven. Especially in light of the situation.”

  The fifteen-minute drive to the farmhouse felt like an eternity as we kept the conversation to other topics. I filled her in on what happened to Lily and lamented about our first foray into guests at Nitro. I knew that there was no point in diving into what Sally had to tell me about Otto and Ursula until we were home and settled, but it took every ounce of control not to press the gas pedal to the floor.

  When we finally arrived, I carried Sally’s bag inside, got her situated in the guest room, and lit a fire in the kitchen. Soon the woody scent of crackling logs filled the space. While Sally unpacked, I steeped cinnamon tea and cut generous slices of the German chocolate cake I had made earlier.

  “Sloan, this is so cozy,” Sally said, returning to the kitchen. She held a stack of file folders in her arms. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. It was like I was staring at a bomb. Whatever was inside those files would likely alter the course of my life.

  I motioned for her to sit and pulled up a chair next to her.

  She pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “It’s just us tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Alex is staying at Mac’s tonight.”

  Sally sighed. “Excellent.” She reached for my hand and pressed a packet of tissues into it. “Tools of the trade.” She winked, but her eyes held a deep sadness.

  I remembered Sally’s office from my childhood visits. Despite its sterile white walls, Sally had tried to make it as warm and welcoming as possible, with bookcases packed with books and art supplies, a plush rug with a collection of stuffed animals, and a tranquil desktop water fountain. There had always been classical music playing and boxes of tissues strategically positioned throughout her office. I used to pride myself on the fact that I never needed tissues. From a very early age, I had mastered the art of stuffing my feelings deep down inside myself. If I had allowed the tears to flow, they may have drowned me.

  Sally patted my hand. “To be honest with you, the more I uncover, the more confused I’ve become.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “I think it will be best if we start where we left off.”

  “Okay.” I stabbed my cake,
but didn’t take a bite.

  “As you know, once I started looking into your files, I realized that my intuition had been correct all along. I’m still kicking myself every day. I should have listened to my gut feeling. I followed up with every foster family when move requests came through, and none of them initiated a move, Sloan. Not one. They all reported that you were polite and respectful. Quiet, sure. Withdrawn, yes, but easy and considerate. None of them asked for you to be placed in different care.”

  “Sally, we’ve been over this. It wasn’t your fault.” I felt terrible that Sally was beating herself up for something that she’d had no control over. It wasn’t until we reopened my case files that she learned that her supervisors had initiated my many moves from foster home to foster home. She believed they had done it intentionally to try and erode my trust in her. I had no idea why I’d been moved so many times, but I certainly didn’t blame her.

  She sighed. “Thank you, Sloan. I appreciate your kindness, but I was the adult. I was responsible for your care and well-being. This long lens into the past isn’t looking kindly on some of my choices. I wish I had been more assertive. I could have done more. I could have stood up to them. I could have said, ‘No, you are not moving her again.’”

  “Don’t do this.” I placed my hand over hers. “It’s okay, and it’s in the past. I’m so grateful for everything you did for me. And, I’m even more grateful that you’re here with me now. Let’s focus on moving forward.”

  She squeezed my hand and blinked back tears. “Okay.”

  A log slipped from the stack, causing us both to startle. I used the poker to shift the log back into place and returned to the table.

  “Obviously someone higher up doesn’t want us to access your information.” She folded her hands together. A gesture that I was familiar with. It made me wonder if she was trying to summon the strength to continue. “When I discovered that my notes and your files were missing, you know how paranoid I became. I haven’t known who to trust, because I have no idea who within the agency was responsible for this. And then there’s the issue of time. So much time has passed that my colleagues have scattered. There are only a few people left. After our last meeting, I started working underground. I’ve met with five of my former colleagues and until recently kept hitting dead ends.”

  My heart flopped.

  “Then I tracked down an old friend. His name is Jim. He remembered your case. For the most part, we kept our caseloads separate. Sometimes we would consult with one another on difficult placements or kids we had flagged as high risk for involvement with the juvenile justice system. I had spoken to Jim about you a number of times. He had been a sounding board for me. It’s taken me this long to find him. He retired three years ago and moved to Florida.”

  “How did you find him?”

  She took a small bite of the cake. “A friend of a friend. I didn’t want to go through the agency, because I don’t want anyone to know that we’re looking into your past.” She ate another bite. “This is delicious, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I tried to smile.

  Sally moved the cake plate to the side. “Jim and I had a long phone call about a week ago. His memories are as fuzzy as mine, but he has a good friend who works in Oregon. His friend has been advocating for updating interagency sharing methods between states. There’s a big push federally for better sharing tools.”

  “Okay.” I wondered where she was going with this.

  “Jim’s friend saved examples of case file sharing. Our old interface was archaic. If a case worker in another state needed information on a child on our caseload, we would have to print and fax documents. You get the drift.”

  “Right.” I picked up my tea. It had begun to cool, so I set it down again.

  “Here’s where it gets interesting. Jim’s friend had been gathering examples to showcase how desperately the system needs modernization. When Jim reached out to him, he went through his archives and found photocopies of some of your old files.”

  Thank goodness I had set my tea down. If it were still in my hand, I would have spilled it all over the floor.

  “There’s not a lot of information here.” Sally strummed her fingers on the file folders. “Everything else has been deleted from the system. This happens to be notes from when Jim asked one of our counterparts in Oregon for help. I had completely forgotten about it, but when I went to Jim with concerns about how many times I was being asked to move you, he told me that he would send your notes over to a friend in Oregon and see if there was precedent for the multiple moves. Nothing ever came of it. These notes have probably been sitting in a dusty box for years. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jim’s friend is involved in this project to update the system, they likely would have sat for another twenty years or have been shredded.”

  I wanted to reach over and yank the files from Sally’s hands.

  “Most of what’s in here are my intake notes, reports from our sessions, in-home visits, et cetera. It’s a condensed version, but it’s something.”

  She handed me the first file folder. “Go ahead and take a look through.”

  “But what about Ursula and Otto?” I asked.

  “Read through that first.” She pressed her hand on the second file folder. “We’ll get to them next.”

  I leafed through the old photocopies of Sally’s notes. Her cursive handwriting was meticulous. The notes had been written professionally, yet I picked up her love and attachment to me through her descriptions of my behavior and some of the leading questions she asked a variety of my foster parents.

  Sally nibbled on her cake while I read the fading pages. As she mentioned, there were only ten pages of notes, and most of the information she had already shared with me.

  “It seems straightforward,” I said, closing the file folder.

  “Agreed.” She dabbed her chin with a napkin. “It’s not earth-shattering, but it is nice to have tangible proof of my memories and a record that you did indeed exist in the eyes of the state.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that point.

  She let out a long sigh. “But Jim’s friend found more. He found this.” Again she pressed her hand firmly on the folder. “This was not anything I had ever seen in your case files. I don’t know where it came from or why I wouldn’t have been looped in on this information, since I was your social worker. This must have come in before I was assigned to you.” She slid the folder to me. “Take a look.”

  I swallowed hard. “I’m nervous, Sally.”

  “I know.” She didn’t try to save me from my emotions. Instead she held a firm, calming stance and waited for me to proceed.

  I lifted the top of the folder. Otto and Ursula’s photos reflected back at me with the word DANGEROUS stamped in red.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  I WANTED TO FLIP THE file closed. “What is this?” I asked Sally, not able to contain the panic in my voice.

  “Read on.”

  The cheery farmhouse kitchen felt like it was closing in on me. The normally pleasant scent of the wood-burning fire made my throat constrict as if the smoke were sucking the air from my lungs.

  “No, this can’t be. Not the Krauses.”

  Sally’s glasses had slipped down her nose. “I know this is difficult, Sloan.” She sat with perfect posture, holding the space for me.

  “I can’t believe the Krauses are dangerous.”

  “Are you ready to read on?” She nodded to the file.

  I took three deep breaths and nodded. On the first page in the folder were grainy pictures of Otto and Ursula. I would have to guess that the pictures were taken in the early seventies. They looked to be in their late thirties or maybe just pushing forty. I paused to look at the word DANGEROUS stamped across their faces before I turned the page.

  The next page had smaller headshots of both of them. Only not with the names that I had known them as. Under Otto’s picture was the name Friedrich, and under Ursula’s was the name Helga.
/>   I thought I might throw up.

  How could this be?

  I wanted to run. I wanted drive to Mac’s place, pick up Alex, and get as far away as possible from Leavenworth and the family I thought I had created.

  “Sloan, are you okay?” Sally’s gentle tone broke through the welling anxiety pulsing through my body.

  “No.” I clutched the file folder. “I can’t believe this. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. If you’re up for it, keep reading and then we’ll work together to figure out what to do next.”

  “Okay.” My fingers trembled as I read the text beneath the Krauses’ photos. Most of the notes had been written in shorthand. I assumed they were meant for internal use amongst—who? The police? FBI? CIA?

  Friedrich and Helga vom Rath are suspected Nazi sympathizers. The couple, along with their two young sons, fled Germany after the attempted arrest of Friedrich’s uncle Ernst vom Rath—wanted for Nazi war crimes. Ernst is personally responsible for the deaths of thousands of concentration camp prisoners. It’s suspected that he is living in the US under a different alias and may try to communicate with Friedrich and Helga. Keep them on the watch list, as they are likely intending to harbor their family member as well as find ways to funnel money to him. Federal warrant in place for wiretap. Agents will be monitoring activity.

  “No. No way. Otto and Ursula Nazi sympathizers? Otto’s uncle a full-fledged Nazi?” My voice sounded screechy. “I can’t believe it, Sally. They are the sweetest people you’ll ever meet. They’ve built such a community here in Leavenworth and are welcoming to everyone they meet. Everyone—every race, religion, sexual orientation—they can’t be Nazis.”

  “I understand your confusion, Sloan.” Her voice was steady and calm. “There’s a bit more, keep reading.”