Buried [Completed]

Chapter twenty-five

"You okay in there?"

Absorbed in the job of sorting through old books for the upcoming sale, Charlotte started.

"Sorry to scare you. Didn't realize you were alone."

Luis, the school janitor, had a push broom in hand, probably wanted to give the gym a good sweep before the night was over. Graying, with stooped shoulders, he ought to be old enough to be retired by now. He'd been the janitor back when she'd gone to Twisted Cedars Intermediate School.

"Just give me ten minutes to finish with this box and then I'll be out of here."

The other volunteers had left over an hour ago. But then they had families waiting for them. All she had was an empty house and a phone that might contain some messages, but not from the right person. She was such an idiot. Until Dougal came back to town, she'd had no idea she had such a self-destructive streak. What would Ann Landers say?

She'd turned down a marriage proposal from one of the finest men in town, a good friend, solid, loyal and dependable- and taken up with someone who was the exact opposite. Dougal never called. He didn't take her out for dinner, give her compliments, send flowers. All he seemed to want from her was research information for his book and, occasionally, sex. And she willingly complied on both counts. Without complaining. On Friday night she might as well have said to him: "Sure, drag me out in the sand for some sex, then leave town without a word. I don't mind."

"Okay," Luis said.

"I'll finish up with the bathrooms down the hall and then I'll come back."

"Thanks, Luis."

He let the door swing shut behind him and the room fell silent again. Charlotte glanced around at the tables of books, most of them full, with more boxes of books tucked under the tables ready to be pulled out for display once the others were sold. Tables were organized by genre. Just like at a book store, fiction was separated from non-fiction, then sub-categorized into mystery, fantasy, horror, literary fiction, bestsellers, beach reads... and so on. Based on the quantity and quality of the donations, she foresaw that they would make more than they had last year.

She turned her attention back to the box in front of her, which contained the books she and Dougal had salvaged from her aunt's cottage. She set them out on the table for mysteries, placing them wherever she could find room. Though volunteers were asked to make their best effort to categorize books by genre and sub-genre, they did not organize within those categories. They simply didn't have time. Besides, rummaging through a random bunch of mysteries, looking for unexpected treasures, was part of the fun.

As she pulled out the last book, Charlotte realized it was in the wrong genre. The Scarlett Letter ought to be included in classics. Looking closer at the old book, she noticed something had been tucked between the pages. It was a letter, in an opened envelope. The envelope- postmarked from Portland and addressed to Shirley Hammond at her Twisted Cedars address- had been torn open on the side. Charlotte pulled out two sheets of paper. The letter, dated in the spring of 1972, was typed. The return address was from a private adoption agency.

"We are very sorry to inform you that our premises were recently broken into and the files containing information about our adoptions for the period of September to November 1950 were stolen. We assume they were taken by an adopted child attempting to circumvent the confidential terms of adoption in order to find his or her mother.

"Our agency conducted nine adoptions during this period, including yours, and so we felt it only correct to contact you and warn you that you may be approached in the near future by someone claiming to be your birth child.