Chapter 11
The Burlington municipal archives smelled of old paper, damp concrete, and decades of forgotten bureaucracy. The building was an austere brick structure dating back to the late nineteenth century, its narrow windows letting in only weak, grayish light from the snowy street outside.
Vincent and Clara sat across a scarred wooden desk from an elderly archivist named Mr. Abernathy, whose thick glasses magnified his watery blue eyes. The old man adjusted his cardigan, peering suspiciously at the identification badges Vincent had placed on the desk.
"Private inquiries into ward files from the early nineteen-nineties require a court order, Mr. Sterling," Abernathy said in a dry, raspy voice. "State privacy laws are very strict regarding closed adoption records and institutional wards."
Clara leaned forward, resting her arms on the desk. She didn't raise her voice, but the intense, unwavering focus in her eyes made the old archivist hesitate. "My mother’s name was Miriam," Clara said softly. "She lived in an isolated farmhouse near the border that burned down in the winter of ninety-four. She had a daughter named Rose. We are not here to exploit anyone, Mr. Abernathy. We are her family. And we have been searching for her for thirty years."
Abernathy looked from Clara to Vincent, taking in the expensive coats, the severe expressions, and the undeniable weight of authority that seemed to follow them. He sighed deeply, removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes.
"Ninety-four was a brutal winter," Abernathy murmured, more to himself than to them. "The state child services division was completely overwhelmed. Dozens of kids pulled from rural fires and abandoned homesteads ended up in the temporary wards before being farmed out to private foster systems across New England."
He stood up slowly, his joints popping, and shuffled over to a massive wall of metal filing cabinets that stretched toward the high ceiling. He pulled open a heavy drawer labeled 1994-1996: Ward Intakes - Region North, flipping rapidly through yellowed index cards.
After a tense few minutes, Abernathy stopped at a card near the back of the drawer. He pulled it out, squinting at the faded typing.
"Rose Miriam," Abernathy read aloud. "Brought in by state troopers following a structural fire at an unincorporated rural domicile near the northern border. No legal guardian listed on intake. Transferred to a private foster placement in Manchester six months later under a sealed guardianship agreement."
"Who signed the guardianship agreement?" Vincent demanded, leaning forward. "Was it Arthur Sterling?"
Abernathy squinted closer at the card, tilting it toward the overhead fluorescent light. "No," the old man said, shaking his head. "It wasn't a family member. The legal fees and placement costs were fully covered by a blind corporate trust managed out of Boston. A holding company called Vance & Sterling Holdings."
Clara and Vincent exchanged a sharp, horrified look.
"Eleanor," Vincent said through clenched teeth. "She didn't just manage the estate accounts. She was cleaning up Arthur’s leftover messes long after he died, tracking down the children he abandoned and scattering them into the foster system to ensure no one could ever challenge the inheritance."
"Where is she now?" Clara asked Abernathy, her voice urgent. "The foster placement in Manchester—who took her in?"
Abernathy ran his finger down a secondary notation scrawled in pencil at the bottom of the card. "Records indicate she was placed with a local textile mill supervisor named Thomas Miller in Manchester, Vermont. But..." The old man hesitated, looking up with a troubled expression.
May you like
"But what?" Vincent prompted.
"The Millers closed their shop and relocated twenty years ago," Abernathy said slowly. "The textile industry collapsed in the late nineties, and most of those families packed up and moved south to the industrial suburbs near Hartford. If your sister survived childhood with the Millers, that is where you will have to look for her."
