Page 39 of Girl Anonymous

Octavia turned to Dante. “Dear, I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. It was all over the news. The videos are wrenching to listen to.”

“Thank you. Her death has led to a lot of discord and speculation and…lifestyle changes.” He meant Maarja and him.

Octavia picked right up on that. “Are you two together?”

“Yes,” he said.

At the same time, Maarja said, “No!”

Octavia turned to Maarja. “Dear, I’m so proud of you for attempting to rescue Mrs. Arundel, especially knowing what I know about your past. If you were able to find comfort with Dante—”

“Temporary comfort, and an illusion.” Her steadfast scorn would do well in the Arundel family.

“Dear, if I recall, you were untouched. The feeling of closeness must have been powerful to overcome such long-held reluctance. To have at last thrown away the shackles of the past and embraced a freedom to try a new world of sensual experiences must be delightful.”

Octavia gave off old hippie vibes, and he moved to immediately correct her free-love assumptions. “Octavia, Maarja will try this new world in my arms.”

Maarja promptly said, “Mama, he imagines I engineered the theft of his art.”

He interceded swiftly. “Merely a moment of genuine doubt. You must admit the suspicion is logical. Also, be aware, Maarja, I think before I speak, and speak only when I think the words will be reported. Why do you think I would make such a cruel accusation in my office for all to hear?” She refused to look at him. He leaned back and, cupping her chin, turned her to face him.

She met his gaze for one moment, then slapped his hand away.

Octavia listened, head tilted, hearing everything they said and probably more.

He’d given Maarja something to think about, and satisfied, he asked, “Octavia, how did you come to care for Maarja and Alex?”

“Ah!” Octavia launched into a story she’d obviously told many times. “I was fifty-three years old before I accepted the directive to have children. Not children from my womb. At that age and in my unconnected state, that would have been impossible. Butwhen Mr. Caruthers brought that skinny, skittish child to my front porch, I recognized Maarja as the first of my children.”

“Mom, don’t…” Maarja objected.

Octavia paid no heed to her daughter. “Alex was next, another wounded child, needing someone to take her from abandoned to transformed. I knew I didn’t have the skills, but Mr. Caruthers had a way about him. He knew things, and I believed when he said these girls were mine.”

Dante was fascinated, both by the story and Maarja’s vast discomfort with the telling. She didn’t want him to know her family; he wanted to know everything. About this, like everything, he would get his way.

“My big old house has three bedrooms and one bathroom. With the two girls and me, the bedrooms were full, and the bathroom was constantly occupied.” Octavia chuckled. “That’s when I discovered the truth of the adage, how long a minute is depends on which side of the bathroom door you’re on.”

He chuckled with her.

“I thought that was all the daughters I could handle. Then Chrispin arrived on a summer day, a child without a voice. I told Mr. Caruthers no. No, I said!” Octavia slapped her fist into her open palm. “I’m a person who prides myself on being shallow. I didn’t want to deal with a mute child and all the trauma inherent therein. But while I was arguing, Alex and Maarja took her by the hand and led her in, like I was some goddess of kindness and generosity.”

Maarja had a quirk in her cheek. “No one thinks that, Mom.”

“I would damned well hope not.” Octavia huffed. “Chrispin slept in Alex’s room.”

Maarja chimed in, as if drawn to the narrative. “On our second Christmas Eve, she sangSilent Nightin her pure, sweet voice and our little family had our reward.”

Octavia added, “And the mystery of her past deepened.”

“Does she speak as well as sing?” Dante asked.

“Yes, to us, and eloquently, but not about her life before she came to us,” Maarja replied. “She’s still reticent in public.”

Octavia picked up the story. “I had three girls, the house was crowded, then Emma arrived, her backpack slung on one shoulder, her face screwed into a defiance that spoke more than words.”

“Did Mr. Caruthers bring her, too?”

“Mr. Caruthers died,” Maarja said. “Sooner or later he was going to anger the wrong person, and he did. Chrispin found his body in the dumpster and notified the police. For a while, I was afraid she’d end up in the dumpster, too, but she had a reputation as the spooky deaf-dumb girl, and Alex and I convinced the street guys she was on the spectrum. She couldn’t—”

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