Sterling’s plane touched down in Madison, Wisconsin, at a private airport. When Sterling said to be ready by six in the morning, he meant wheels up at six. I didn’t mind. I’d hardly slept with my thoughts on what we may find. If we didn’t find the evidence that Sterling had alluded to in our talks, we were back to no answers. If we did, I didn’t want to see it. I wanted the rose-colored glasses he described.
It was hard enough to know that beyond the stories things like child exploitation occurred, that men and women placed dollar signs above the lives of children, that there were really people out there who paid to fulfill sick fantasies. Knowing it was enough to turn my stomach. I couldn’t see it.
The flight from Chicago to Madison was less than an hour, yet the tension in the plane was palpable, radiating off Patrick and Sterling in thick waves reverberating through the air. After the initial greeting, Keaton stayed away from the three of us, aware of our moods. There was a lot riding on this theory and we all knew it.
Sterling had reassured me numerous times that no matter if there was evidence for us to find or if we didn’t, I was safe. He promised double security details on my friends. I didn’t want to believe that the evidence existed or that my uncle or Sterling’s father had been involved, yet at the same time, I wanted it over. I wanted to not be afraid for my friends. I wanted a life like we had in Canada or on Lake Michigan. I wanted to not need to look over my shoulder or fear being without Sterling or Patrick. I wanted to maybe one day walk down Michigan Avenue or Lake Shore Drive alone and enjoy the scenery.
Patrick said there would be a car waiting for the three of us at the airport in Madison. Reid was back in Chicago doing what he did from the confines of their lair and watching over Lorna and the rest of Sparrow.
I recalled what Sterling had said, that this could be a ruse to focus our attention elsewhere, leaving parts of Sparrow vulnerable. Or this could be a setup. I didn’t want to believe either of those options because it meant Annabelle purposely led us this way for Rubio.
Along with my fantasies of walking the main streets of Chicago, I envisioned a relationship with my birth mother, one where we met for lunch at a cafe or enjoyed one another’s company as we browsed stores along Lake Shore Drive.
We all sucked in a breath as the door to the plane opened. Beyond, the sky was filled with the purples and pinks that follow a sunrise. It was early Wednesday morning and it seemed as though Madison was quiet, waiting for the hustle and bustle of the workday to begin.
Sterling placed his hand in the small of my back, with Patrick a step ahead. “Come on, sunshine. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
I nodded, sandwiched between the two mountains of men as we scurried across the tarmac, through the small airport to the waiting car.
Each wearing blue jeans and a simple t-shirt, Sterling and I were both casual. It was Patrick who continued his role as bodyguard in a dark suit as he sat shotgun with the driver he’d hired, and Sterling and I sat in the back seat. The car was a simple, inconspicuous black sedan. The drive from Madison to Cambridge lasted about thirty minutes as Sterling searched his phone for more information on the church where my parents were married.
“It’s the oldest Scandinavian Methodist Church in the world, built in 1851,” he said. “The building is protected under the National Registry of Historic Places.”
If my father, Daniel McCrie, hid the evidence here, it was a smart move. He was probably confident that the building would remain standing, and as a bonus, there would have been no record, such as with a safety deposit box or storage container.”
I let out a deep breath. “How do we get in and where do we search?”
“Getting inside won’t be a problem. There’s no security system,” Patrick said. “And very old locks.”
“How do you know that?” I asked and then added, “Never mind. I should learn not to doubt you.”
He went on, “The original structure—the chapel—has a basement and a steeple with a bell tower. More recently, there’s been an addition to the building which also has a basement. From the plans I’ve accessed, the newer section’s basement is subdivided into a kitchen and classrooms. The first floor of that newer section has meeting rooms, more classrooms, and offices. The original building is where church services are still held.”
“Are you thinking the basement of the original building?” Sterling asked.
“That or the steeple,” Patrick replied. “My guess is that the original basement is not fit for use as part of the building. It makes sense that it would be a good storage area.”
My pulse kicked up as we passed a Welcome to Cambridge sign.
By the minute, the sky was lightening. Suddenly I worried that we would be seen.
“We’ll go around back. There’s an access door that goes directly to the basement level. Take the car,” Patrick told the driver, “and wait elsewhere where you won’t be seen. Come back when one of us calls or texts.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, pulling around into the rear parking lot.
The church itself was small by today’s standards, yet the stone walls and tall steeple, combined with the stained-glass windows, held a romantic charm. I reached for Sterling’s hand as a small fenced-in area to the side of the church came into view.
He followed my gaze. “You can stay in the car. You don’t need to get out.”
I swallowed the tears bubbling in my throat, forming a lump ready to erupt, and shook my head. “I want to stay with you. Let’s go into the church first.”
Sterling nodded, tugging me closer and planting a kiss on my forehead. “You’re so strong. I am amazed.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you could read my thoughts. I’m a mess.”
He kissed my forehead again and forced a smile. “Then you’re my favorite kind of mess.”
The car stopped in the parking lot near a short sidewalk leading to concrete steps that were bordered by a wrought-iron fence. The three of us got out of the car, looking all directions for any witnesses to our breaking and entering. Momentarily, my gaze lingered on the fenced area in the distance with a variety of different-sized headstones.
The stairway where we’d been dropped off descended below the ground to an old wooden door with a dirty window. The grass on either side of the sidewalk was coated in morning dew as the late summer air began to warm with the rising of the sun. A few leaves had lost their hold of trees, blowing in small cyclones upon the pavement; however, as we descended into the cavern of the stairs, the breeze ceased to find us.
With Patrick ahead of us, my hand shook in Sterling’s grasp.
This sort of activity may not be unusual for these two, but it was my first time to break and enter, and I was as nervous about being caught as I was about finding the evidence.
As if he’d had a key, Patrick did something to the lock and turned the old tarnished brass knob. After a bit of stickiness, probably caused by old paint combined with a rarely used door, a push of his shoulder moved the door inward. Mustiness filled my senses as we stepped into the concrete rectangle seeming to span the entire length and width of the chapel above.
I lifted my free hand to my nose as our shoes upon the cement caused swirls of dust to come to life. The illumination from the window and Patrick’s phone brought dimness where there had only been black. Scanning the room, the addition of light revealed a lost world inhabited mostly by dust, cobwebs, and spider webs, their intricate designs hanging from rafters and attaching to support beams.
“I don’t think they come down here much,” Sterling said as we continued to turn, taking in the entire basement.
“There are so many boxes,” I said. “How will we find it if it’s here?”
Patrick handed each of us a pair of blue latex gloves from his suit coat pocket—because everyone carries those. We covered our hands and spread out, searching and opening boxes. Some were so old that touching them caused the cardboard to disintegrate in our grasp. Choir robes from forever ago and hymnals that at one time were the standard were among our discoveries. Other findings included files full of records long forgotten—most with writing that was no longer legible—that filled multitudes of boxes left to mildew on rusting metal shelves.
“I’m going up to the steeple,” Patrick finally said.
“I want to see the chapel?” I said to Sterling, asking as much as stating.
He shook his head. “I was so sure this was it. I’m sorry. I thought...” His words trailed away as disappointment infiltrated his tone.
“Please, before people get here. I want to see where my parents were married.”
Taking one last look around at the decayed past of this church, he nodded and held my hand, our latex gloves still in place as he first ascended the wooden steps. His weight caused the wood to creak as the rubber soles of my tennis shoes squeaked in the silence. Step by step, we progressed upward in the narrow staircase.
More than once the stairs turned until we finally came to a landing. Above the landing, there were more stairs. I peered upward into the darkness, knowing that was where Patrick had gone. At the landing, Sterling reached for the old decorative doorknob and pulled the wooden door toward us.
The door opened to the vestibule of the chapel.
Together, we stepped out into the fresher air.
The old wood floor was well worn yet beautifully maintained. Above the doors to the outside was a striking stained-glass window, the morning sun sending colors from the design to the white plaster walls within.
One more set of double doors and we were inside the chapel.
I sucked in a breath as Sterling squeezed my hand.
“It’s lovely,” I said, my gaze searching everywhere from the rows of wooden pews to the tall windows along the side and the huge stained-glass window above the altar. The minister’s pulpit was to one side and a place for a choir was secluded off with more beautiful wood trim. To the other side was a large grand piano.
I turned to Sterling with tears in my eyes. “Thank you.”
He shook his head. “It seems this trip has been a waste of time.”
“No, don’t you see? If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here, seeing this. I know my father did bad things. I know their marriage wasn’t perfect, but they created me. They loved one another when they were here. And I would have lived my entire life without knowing this, without seeing this. It’s all possible because of you.”
Letting go of my hand, he wrapped his arm around my back and pulled me to his side. “One day, I’d like to be the one saying I do.”
His declaration washed away a bit of my sadness. “Mr. Sparrow, if that’s a proposal, you’ll need to do better. Remember the asking part?”
His finger ran over my cheek, the scent of the gloves prevailing, yet the sentiment still there. “That’s right. What were those words again?”
I lifted myself to my toes and kissed his cheek. “When you remember, let me know.” I tilted my head toward the side of the church. “Before the driver comes I’d like to go see...”
“Are you sure?” he asked.