I have something your father would have wanted the world to know. She signed it simply, A friend, and enclosed a photocopy of Adelaide’s letter and one of the photographs, Thomas with young Margaret. At the library the next day, she mailed the letter, using the address from Westside High’s website.
Now all they could do was wait and hope that Margaret would respond. What if she doesn’t come? Iris asked. Then we try another approach, Taylor said firmly, but I think she will.
This is about her father, about justice. For the next few days, they continued their normal routine. Taylor collected cans and did odd jobs.
Iris studied from library books, but the toolbox sat in their corner like a silent witness, a reminder of the task they’d taken on. Saturday arrived cold but clear. They dressed in their cleanest clothes, a relative term when one owns only two outfits, and took the bus to Riverfront Park.
The fountain wasn’t running in winter, its basin dry and littered with brown leaves, but it made an easy landmark. They arrived early, sitting on a bench with a clear view of the park entrances. Iris clutched her stuffed rabbit, nervous with anticipation.
How will we know it’s her? She whispered. We’ve seen her picture, Taylor reminded her, and she’ll be looking for a woman with a little girl. At one, a sedan pulled into the parking lot.
A woman emerged, tall, straight-backed, with the same severe bun from the faculty photograph. She stood by her car for a long moment, scanning the park, clearly debating whether to proceed. That’s her, Taylor said, standing up.
Miss Brennan Hoskins? Taylor asked when they were a few feet apart. The woman nodded stiffly. You sent the letter.
It wasn’t a question. Her gaze took in Taylor’s worn clothing, then moved to Iris, softening slightly at the sight of the child. You said you had something of my father’s.
Taylor reached into her bag and withdrew the wooden box containing the photographs. These were hidden in a storage unit I purchased at auction. They belonged to your Aunt Adelaide.
Margaret’s hands trembled as she took the box. When she opened it and saw the fishing trip photograph, her composure faltered. Where did you get this? She whispered, finger-tracing the image of her younger self.
I lost all my pictures of him when we moved away. There’s more, Taylor said gently, producing the original letter. Your Aunt left this with the photos.
Margaret read Adelaide’s letter there in the park, her face growing paler with each paragraph. When she finished, tears streamed down her cheeks. I knew, she said.
I always knew it wasn’t an accident. My mother knew, but we had no proof. And Pritchett, he sent men to our house, threatened us.
We moved away, changed our name. I haven’t been back to this city in forty years. We have proof now, Taylor said quietly.
Margaret looked up sharply. Where is it, the toolbox? Somewhere safe, Taylor answered, not ready to reveal that they were living in the very mill where Thomas had died. I need to see it, Margaret said.
All of it. I can’t open the locks, Taylor admitted. I know someone who might help us.
A retired detective named Frank Osei. He left the force over corruption issues. He’d understand the need for discretion.
They arranged to meet the following evening at a neutral location, a closed café owned by Frank’s cousin, where they could examine the contents of the toolbox privately. As they parted, Margaret reached out impulsively and squeezed Taylor’s hand. Thank you, she said, her voice thick with emotion.
You could have ignored this. Most people would have. Taylor thought of the many times she’d been ignored since becoming homeless.
Sometimes, she replied, those whose society doesn’t see are the ones who see the most clearly. That evening, back at the mill, Taylor tried to process everything that had happened. They had found Margaret Brennan Hoskins, Thomas’s daughter, now a middle-aged history teacher who had spent her life wondering about her father’s death.
Tomorrow, they would meet with a retired detective to open the toolbox and examine its contents. Mama? Iris’ voice broke into her thoughts. Are we doing something good? Yes, Taylor answered after a moment.
I think we are. Even though it happened a long time ago, truth doesn’t have an expiration date, sweetheart. I like Miss Margaret.
She has sad eyes, like yours sometimes. We’ve both lost things, I suppose. But now she might get answers, Iris pointed out.
That’s good, right? Very good. The next day dragged with anticipation. Taylor didn’t dare leave the mill for her usual recycling run, afraid to let the toolbox out of her sight.
Instead, they prepared for the evening meeting, gathering the photos, the letter, and carefully wrapping the toolbox in an old sweatshirt for transport. Should we bring all our things? Iris asked. No, she decided after consideration.
We’ll come back here tonight. This is still our shelter. At 6 p.m., they caught a bus to the address Margaret had provided.
A shuttered cafe in a mixed-use neighborhood. The sign on the door read, Closed for Renovations. But a light glowed from the back.
Taylor knocked in the pattern Margaret had specified. Three quick taps. Pause.
Two more. Margaret opened the door immediately, ushering them inside. The cafe was empty of customers.
Chairs stacked on tables. But the kitchen lights were on, and a man sat at a back table with various tools laid out before him. This is Frank.
Margaret introduced the man, an African-American in his 60s, with watchful eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. Frank, this is Taylor and her daughter Iris. Frank Osei nodded.
Margaret tells me you’ve found something interesting. It was hidden behind a false wall in an abandoned storage unit. She explained.
According to Adelaide Brennan’s letter, it contains evidence that her brother Thomas was murdered in 1983. Frank examined the toolbox without touching it. Three tumbler locks.
High quality. These were serious locks for the time period. He looked up at Taylor.
You understand what you might be getting into? Pritchett is still a powerful man in this city. I understand, Taylor said. But five other workers died after Thomas Brennan…
