Chapter 12: The County Office Wouldn’t Say Her Name
The county office sat behind a library and a row of wet sycamore trees. Its brick walls looked darker from the rain, and the flag near the entrance hung without moving.
Daddy parked close to the curb. Mara stayed in the back seat with me while he went inside to ask where we needed to go. Through the windshield, I watched him speak to a woman behind a glass window. She pointed down a hallway. Daddy nodded, then looked back at us before returning to the car.
“They’ll see us in records,” he said.
“Will they tell us where Mommy is?”
His mouth tightened. “They might not know.”
Mara opened the file box on her lap. The papers inside had been protected in plastic sleeves, but the edges still looked tired from being handled too many times. “We’re asking about the transportation request,” she said. “Not demanding anyone’s private information.”
Daddy glanced at her. “And if they refuse?”
“Then we ask them to put the refusal in writing.”
I liked that. A refusal written down seemed less powerful than one spoken across a desk.
Inside, the building smelled like floor cleaner and damp coats. A security guard pointed us toward a waiting area with blue chairs. Daddy kept one hand around mine. I carried Mommy’s blue cardigan against my chest. The sleeves hung past my fingers.
A records clerk called us after twenty minutes. She was young, with a red mark from her glasses behind one ear. Her name tag said JANELLE.
Daddy placed the transportation request on the counter. “This came from a bus-station locker. We’re trying to verify the pickup information.”
Janelle studied the photocopy. Her eyes stopped at the blacked-out destination line.
“I can’t release transportation records without a case number,” she said.
“Can you confirm whether this form belongs to the county food program?” Mara asked.
Janelle looked at her, then at the file box. “What food program?”
Mara slid over the gala meal receipt. “This event.”
Janelle didn’t touch it. “That’s not my department.”
“Which department is?” Daddy asked.
She gave him a number printed on a small card. Her voice had gone careful. “You can call them.”
Daddy took the card but didn’t move. “My daughter was listed as a guest at that event. The records show two meals sent upstairs. Her mother may have been involved.”
Janelle’s face changed when she looked at me. Not fear exactly. Recognition without a name.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Daddy’s fingers closed around the card. “That isn’t an answer.”
The clerk lowered her voice. “There was a review after the gala. If you’re asking about that, you need the county auditor’s office.”
“Was my wife part of the review?” he asked.
Janelle glanced at the darkened hallway. “I don’t know.”
It was the first time somebody had said they didn’t know without pretending the question was foolish.
Mara asked for the auditor’s address. Janelle wrote it down, then added a case number in the corner of the paper. Before she handed it over, she leaned toward Daddy.
“Ask for the vendor-payment file,” she whispered. “Not the gala report.”
Daddy looked at her for a long second. “Why?”
Janelle pulled back. “That’s all I can tell you.”
Outside, rain tapped on the car roof. Mara sat in the driver’s seat this time, and Daddy knelt beside me before closing my door.
“We’re going to another office,” he said.
“Because Mommy went there?”
“Because somebody may have written down what happened.”
I looked at the cardigan. One button was missing. The fabric smelled faintly like soap and the locker’s cold metal.
“Mommy wanted us to find it,” I said.
Daddy didn’t correct me. He only rested his forehead against mine for a moment.
At the auditor’s office, a receptionist told us the person with the case number was out at lunch. Mara asked when she would return. The receptionist said an hour.
We waited beside a vending machine that hummed too loudly. Daddy bought me crackers, but I saved two in my pocket without thinking. He noticed. His hand moved, then stopped.
“You can eat them,” he said.
“I will.”
He nodded as if believing me was a choice he had to make carefully.
A gray-haired man finally came through the security door carrying a paper cup. He introduced himself as Mr. Harlan and took us into a small conference room. When Mara placed the records on the table, he did not look surprised.
“You’ve already seen the public report,” he said.
“We’ve seen the report that says the gala was a success,” Daddy replied. “We want the vendor-payment records.”
Mr. Harlan folded his hands. “Those aren’t generally provided to families.”
“Then provide them to me as the parent of a child counted in the meal allocation.”
Silence settled over the table.
Mr. Harlan opened a folder. “The county paid for a projected number of meals. The vendor submitted delivery confirmations. Any discrepancy would need to be documented.”
Mara pushed the receipt forward. “Six meals listed here. Four counted in the west room.”
His eyes flicked to the pencil note. “Where did you get this?”
“Locker Ten at the bus station,” she said.
He stopped turning pages.
Daddy leaned forward. “Two meals were sent upstairs. Who were they for?”
Mr. Harlan closed the folder. “I can request an internal copy.”
“Today?”
“I can request it today.”
It wasn’t enough, but it was movement.
Before we left, he gave Mara a receipt for the request. She put it in the file box. Daddy held the door open for me, and I stepped into the hall.
Behind us, Mr. Harlan called, “Mr. Vale.”
Daddy turned.
“If the transportation request concerns a protected participant, the destination may remain sealed.”
“Then give us everything that isn’t sealed,” Daddy said.
Mr. Harlan looked at me. “That may be the only way to learn what happened.”
The rain had stopped by the time we reached the parking lot. Water dripped from the sycamore branches, one drop at a time.
May you like
Daddy took my hand.
For the first time, the county had admitted there was something to learn.
