“Do you remember the name of the agency you used?”

“It was through the Catholic Church. The local diocese here. But I am sure it’s been shuttered for years. How do you know he’s a relation?”

“I have a friend of mine who is a reporter. He worked back from the hospital I’d been born in. Talking to people there, he discovered that my mother had been given a pseudonym, and that someone with that same name had also given birth to this man, who had been adopted. His name is Dr. Manuel Manello.”

“So you already know the story. Why do you need to question me about it?”

Jo moved her eyes to the windows. Outside, in the cold, a man in a dark green landscaper’s outfit strode into view with a hoe.

“I just thought that perhaps you or Mother might recall something.”

Her father picked up the silver teaspoon by his knife. Digging into the grapefruit, he frowned again as he put a piece in his mouth.

“I’m afraid the answer is no. And why do you want to look into all this?”

Jo blinked. “It’s my history.”

“But it doesn’t matter.”

She refocused on the gardener. “It does to me.”

When she went to get up, he said, “You’re leaving?”

“I think it’s for the best.”

“Well.” Her father patted his mouth with that napkin. “As you wish. But do you have any message for your mother?”

“No, I don’t.” At least not her adoptive mother. “Thank you.”

As she took the photograph back, she had no idea what she was thanking him for. The fact that she had made it to maturity still alive? That was about it.

Returning the folder to her backpack, she re-zipped things, nodded, and turned away. Walking out through the dining room, she paused in front of the portrait of her mother that hung over the sideboard. Mrs. Philomena “Phillie” Early was beautiful in the Grace Kelly kind of standard, a platinum blonde with cheekbones like a thoroughbred.

“Jo.”

She looked over her shoulder. Her father had come to stand in the archway of the breakfast room, his napkin in his hand, his thin fingers worrying the damask.

“Forgive me. I have always found that I handle this subject badly. One feels a sense of failure that one could not provide one’s wife with a child. I’m sure you understand this.”

“I’m sorry,” Jo said because she felt like she had to.

“I can give you the name of our attorney at the time. I don’t believe he is in practice anymore, but he must have known the real name of the woman as he processed the paperwork with the diocese. Even if whatever hospital she was in gave her a pseudonym for the birth, legally, she would have had to use her given name to relinquish parental rights. Perhaps that would help you?”

“But she died.”

“Not as far as we were told.”

Jo recoiled, unsure what story to believe. But then she refocused. “I would like that contact information, please.”

Her father nodded and walked over. “It will be in my records in the study.”

Jo followed him out across the polished foyer and into a wood-paneled room that had always reminded her of a jewelry box. Over at the desk, her father leaned down low.

“You have your own file,” he said.

As if she were a car and he were keeping her maintenance records so the warranty held up.

Extracting a thick portfolio tied with a band, he sat down as he dove into the paperwork, and she wondered how it was so voluminous.

“I saved all of your school reports and test scores,” he said as if he read her mind.

Why, she wanted to ask. Then again, maybe he thought he might need them if he sought to return her to the hospital she had been born in.

Watching his spindly fingers pick through the pages he had retained, she reflected on how frail he seemed, his thin body bent, his narrow shoulders hunched. For some reason, his physical weakness made her think about all of the propriety he always insisted upon, and how his protocols had defined her childhood and early adulthood, presented to her as a test of morality or worthiness she had to pass. Funny—now, she saw all of the arbitrary rules as the defense mechanisms of a feeble and conflict-averse man, one who had muddled through life with a remarkable lack of personal distinction for all the historical distinction of his pedigree.

“Here,” he said. “His name and number.”

Her father held out a business card and Jo took it. Robert J. Temple, Esq. With a downtown Philadelphia address and an original 215 area code. No firm name listed.

Putting the stiff little rectangle on the leather blotter, she got her phone out and snapped a photo of it.

“Thank you,” she said as she handed the thing back.

“You are welcome.”

Jo felt as though she had to wait as the business card went back into the portfolio, and the flap was battened down once again with the band. Her father then returned the collection of documents to the lower drawer and got to his feet. As if the business meeting were over.

“Do give Mother my regards,” Jo said.

Now, the man smiled. “Oh, I most certainly will. And she will return them to you, I’m sure.”

He was pleased because that was an appropriate thing to say and do. Which would provide him with an appropriate thing to communicate to his wife when the subject of the unannounced visit came up.

“Oh, do you need a ride somewhere?” Chance Early asked. “I didn’t see a car in the drive.”

“No, I’ll get a Lyft.”

“From whom? Tom can take you where you need to go.”

Of course the man had never heard of Lyft or Uber.

“A taxi, I mean.” She one-strapped her backpack. “I’m just going to wait on the front step after I call for it. I will enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.”

The relief on her father’s face wasn’t something he bothered to hide. “Very well. It has been lovely to see you again, Josephine. I look forward to our next meeting.”

He stuck his hand out.

Jo shook what she was offered, finding his palm bone dry and skeletal. “Thank you. I’ll see myself out so that your breakfast is not unduly interrupted.”

“That is most considerate.”

As Jo left the house, she got out her phone again. A number not in her contacts had called and left a message, but she ignored the notification as she went into the Lyft app.

She was leaning back against the warm stone of the house, her face lifted to the sun, when a Nissan Stanza pulled up. Getting in the back, she declined mints, control over the Sirius radio, and an alteration—hotter or cooler—of the air temperature. The driver was chatty and she was glad. As he hit the gas, she had the sense she was not ever going back to her parents’ house again and she needed a distraction from that conclusion.

Except of course she would go back. She had visited her parents for Christmas just three months ago. And Christmas would be coming back around in another eight. So surely she would return…

Jo didn’t remember much about the drive back to the 30th Street Station. Or precisely how she came to be on a train again.

At least she managed to get another window seat.

As she settled in and hoped that she would continue to have the car mostly to herself, she took out her phone and checked again to see if Syn had called. She was disappointed to find that he hadn’t. Then again, she needed to reach out to him first, didn’t she.