That’s our mill, Iris said. Yes, Taylor murmured. The wax seal broke easily, revealing several pages of handwritten letters inside.
It’s getting too dark to read here, Taylor said. Let’s take these back to the mill. We can look at everything properly there.
They couldn’t carry much else, not with the toolbox being so heavy. Taylor wrapped it carefully in a relatively clean shirt from the unit, then packed it, along with the envelope and wooden box of photos, into her backpack. Should we lock it again? Iris asked.
Taylor considered. No, there’s nothing left worth stealing, and maybe someone else will find something useful in what remains. They barely caught the last bus back toward downtown, using another two precious dollars.
All the way back, the backpack sat heavy on Taylor’s lap, its contents a mystery that made her heart race with possibilities. At the mill, they slipped through the fence as dusk gathered. The building looked different to Taylor now, knowing that the smiling man in the photograph had once stood proudly before it.
In their makeshift home, Taylor lit their camping lantern and set it on the wooden spool table. Iris arranged their new acquisitions carefully. The toolbox.
The envelope. The wooden box of photographs. Can I see the letter? She asked.
After we eat, Taylor promised. They ate quickly, anticipating making the bland soup taste better somehow. When they’d finished, Taylor unfolded the pages of the letter.
The handwriting was shaky but legible. The ink faded to brown in places. She began to read aloud.
My name is Adelaide Brennan. I am 74 years old, and I am a coward. This mill, the Brennan Textile Mill, was my father’s.
When he died in 1975, he left it to me and my brother Thomas. We ran it together until 1983, when Thomas was killed in an industrial accident. The insurance investigators ruled it an accident.
It wasn’t, Taylor’s voice faltered. She looked up at Iris, whose eyes were wide with interest. This is like a mystery book, the girl whispered.
Keep reading, Mama, Taylor continued. Thomas discovered that our floor manager, Dale Pritchett, was running a scheme, doctoring safety inspections, pocketing the money meant for equipment maintenance. Thomas confronted him.
Three days later, the accident happened. Dale made sure he was nowhere near the floor that day. I knew.
I had Thomas’s journal. He documented everything. I had proof.
But Pritchett had connections, city council, police, union bosses, and I was a childless widow who’d inherited an empire I never wanted. I was terrified. So I closed the mill, sealed Thomas’s evidence in this box, and I stayed silent.
For 34 years, I’ve lived with this shame. Taylor looked at the toolbox with new understanding. It wasn’t just old tools inside.
It was evidence of murder. Her hands trembled slightly as she returned to the letter. The toolbox contains Thomas’s journal, the doctored inspection reports, photographs of the equipment that killed him, and financial records proving the embezzlement.
Also included, the deed to this mill property still in my name. I never sold it. Couldn’t bear to.
And the access codes to a safety deposit box at First National Bank box 891. I’m dying now. Cancer.
Too late for courage, I suppose. But maybe whoever finds this has more strength than I did. Maybe they can do what I couldn’t.
Tell the truth. Taylor set the letter down, her mind racing. The mill, their current shelter, still belonged to Adelaide Brennan’s estate.
The toolbox contained evidence of a murder covered up for decades. What does it mean, Mama? Iris asked. It means, Taylor said slowly, that we found something important.
Something that could matter a great deal to the right people. They examined the photographs more carefully. Thomas Brennan’s kind face looked back at them from across time.
A man who had died for trying to do the right thing. In another photo, he stood with a teenage girl. The back read, Tommy and Margaret Fishing Trip 1982.
Her 13th birthday. Margaret, Taylor murmured. His daughter.
That night, sleep eluded Taylor. The toolbox sat in the corner of their space. Its three locks a frustrating barrier.
What evidence lay within? And more importantly, what should she do with it? She was homeless, with no credibility. The murder, if it was murder, had happened nearly 40 years ago. Dale Pritchett, the man Adelaide accused, might be dead himself by now.
Or still powerful and dangerous. Morning brought weak February sunlight and a decision. After their breakfast, Taylor told Iris her plan.
We’re going to the library today. I need to research some things online. About the mill? And Thomas? Yes, and about Dale Pritchett.
And we need to see if we can find Thomas’s daughter, Margaret. She’d be in her 40s now. The public library was their regular refuge on cold days.
Warm, safe, with free internet access and bathrooms with soap and hot water. They arrived when it opened at 9, claiming a quiet corner with two computer terminals. Taylor started with Thomas Brennan’s death.
A brief newspaper article from October 1983 confirmed that Thomas Brennan, 43, co-owner of Brennan Textile Mill, had died in an industrial accident involving a weaving machine. Next, she searched for Dale Pritchett. To her surprise, he was very much alive, 79 years old, living in a mansion in the city’s affluent Heights neighborhood.
After leaving Brennan Mill, he’d become a successful business consultant, eventually having a street named after him in the new business district. The mill property search was equally revealing. It was still listed as owned by the Adelaide Brennan Estate, tied up in probate limbo.
According to court records, Adelaide had died 18 months ago with no will, leaving the property in legal purgatory. Finally, Taylor searched for Margaret Brennan. This proved more difficult, as she’d likely married and changed her name.
But after trying various combinations, Taylor found a promising lead, Margaret Brennan Hoskins, 52, a high school history teacher at Westside High. That’s her, Taylor whispered, comparing the faculty photo to the teenage girl in the fishing picture. The eyes were the same, sad but determined.
Most surprising of all was Taylor’s discovery that after Thomas died, five other workers had died at the mill between 1983 and its closure in 1987, all ruled accidents. This isn’t just about one man, Taylor murmured, making notes on a scrap of paper. It’s about five families who never got answers.
Are we going to tell them? Iris asked. Yes, Taylor decided. We’re going to tell them, starting with Margaret.
Back at the mill, Taylor composed a careful letter. She had no stamps, no return address, but she could mail it from the library’s public mailbox. She wrote, Dear Miss Brennan Hoskins, You don’t know me, but I recently found something that belonged to your father, Thomas Brennan.
I believe you would want to see it. I’ve enclosed a photocopy of part of a letter written by your Aunt Adelaide before her death, and one of the photographs I found with it. If you wish to learn more, please meet me at Riverfront Park this Saturday at 2 p.m. I’ll be near the fountain with my young daughter…
