As they approached Eliza’s office building, Frank suddenly stiffened, his hand going to Taylor’s arm. Don’t react, he murmured, but the black sedan is across the street, two men watching the building. Taylor’s heart jumped into her throat.
She casually called to Iris, who came running back to her side. Margaret saw the car too, her face paled, but she maintained her composure. Side entrance, Eliza directed calmly, guiding them down an alley to a service door.
Inside, they took freight stairs to her office, entering through a back door. They’re getting bolder, Frank observed grimly, which means they’re desperate. That’s good and bad news.
How is it good? Taylor asked. It means they’re scared of what we found, Frank explained. Eliza nodded in agreement.
We need to move quickly now. I’ll draft the legal documents today. A formal complaint naming Pritchett and seeking to reopen the investigation into Thomas Brennan’s death.
Frank will secure the evidence in my law office safely, and I’ll contact a journalist I trust at the Tribune. What about Taylor and Iris? Margaret asked. They’re the most vulnerable in this situation.
All eyes turned to Taylor. The reality of their situation crashed down on her anew. They were homeless, with no resources, now potentially targeted by powerful enemies.
My offer stands, Margaret said firmly. Stay with me. My house isn’t much, but it’s secure, in a good neighborhood, and Pritchett wouldn’t know to look for you there.
Thank you, she said simply. We accept. Margaret’s house was indeed modest, a small bungalow on a quiet street of similar homes.
But to Taylor and Iris, who had been living in an abandoned mill, it seemed like a palace. It had heat that worked, running water, a refrigerator stocked with food, a washing machine. The spare room is through here, Margaret explained, leading them down a short hallway.
It’s nothing special. I’ve used it as a home office, mostly. The room held a daybed, a desk, and bookshelves lined with history texts, evidence of Margaret’s profession.
I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed. There are towels in the bathroom cabinet. And, she hesitated, I have some clothes that might fit you, Taylor.
They’re just extras. Things I don’t wear much. Taylor felt tears prick her eyes.
Thank you, she managed. Can I take a shower? Iris asked. They’d been limited to sponge baths at public restrooms for months.
Of course, Margaret smiled. Take as long as you like. There’s plenty of hot water.
While Iris showered, singing softly to herself in delight, Taylor stood awkwardly in the living room, acutely aware of the contrast between herself and the comfortable, if simple, surroundings. Please, sit, Margaret urged. Would you like tea or coffee? Coffee would be wonderful, Taylor admitted.
As Margaret moved to the kitchen, Taylor noticed the photographs on the walls, mostly landscapes, but a few personal shots. One showed a much younger Margaret in a cap and gown. Another displayed her with an older woman who must have been her mother.
You never married? Taylor asked. No. Never quite found the right person, she handed Taylor a mug.
My mother died 10 years ago. Cancer. Like Adelaide.
I’ve been on my own since then. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, sipping their coffee. It was Taylor who finally broached the subject that hung between them.
What happens now? With Pritchett, I mean. Eliza thinks we should proceed on multiple fronts simultaneously. File the civil suit.
Contact the other families. Approach the media. And, she hesitated, potentially confront Pritchett directly with a lawyer present, to offer him a chance to come clean before it all becomes public.
Is that safe? Eliza believes it might be the most effective strategy. At 79, facing public disgrace and financial ruin, Pritchett might choose to confess, rather than fight, a protracted legal battle that would destroy his legacy, regardless of outcome. The conversation paused as Iris emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping, but her face glowing with happiness.
Mama, the shower has T-H-R-E settings, and the soap smells like lemons. Margaret laughed. I’ll find you something to wear, she offered, disappearing into her bedroom and returning with a soft t-shirt.
This will be big on you, but it should work as a nightgown for now. After Iris was dressed and settled in the spare room, exploring the bookshelves with delight, Taylor finally allowed herself the luxury of a shower, standing under the hot spray, she wept silently. Tears of relief, exhaustion, and a complex mixture of emotions she couldn’t fully name.
The simple pleasure of being clean, truly clean, overwhelmed her. That evening, they shared a simple meal of pasta and salad. Margaret, it turned out, was not much of a cook.
I’m usually just feeding myself, she explained apologetically. It’s perfect, Taylor assured her. After dinner, as they sat in the living room, Eliza called with an update.
The tape from the recorder had been partially restored. It wasn’t as damning as they’d hoped, no outright confession, but it did capture Pritchett discussing the doctored inspection reports, saying, what Thomas doesn’t understand is that sometimes corners need cutting. Business isn’t about coddling workers, it’s about profit margins, it’s not enough for a criminal case, Eliza explained.
But combined with the doctored reports and financial evidence, it strengthens our civil claim considerably. She also reported that she had successfully filed the initial paperwork for a wrongful death suit and had scheduled a meeting with a Tribune journalist for the following day. What about the other families? Margaret asked.
Frank’s located three of them so far, Eliza replied. He’s approaching them carefully, explaining the situation. Two have already expressed interest in joining the suit.
Progress was being made, but for Taylor, another concern loomed larger. What would happen to Iris and herself after this was over? Margaret’s generosity couldn’t and shouldn’t be indefinite. They needed a long-term solution, a way back to stability.
The question kept her awake that night, even in the unfamiliar comfort of a real bed. Beside her, Iris slept deeply, her breathing even and peaceful in a way Taylor hadn’t witnessed in months. Morning brought new developments.
Frank arrived early, bringing donuts for breakfast and news. The Tribune journalist had agreed to meet them at 2 p.m. This reporter, Jake Miller, has a reputation for integrity, Frank explained. He’s done investigative pieces on corporate malfeasance before.
If he takes this story, Pritchett won’t be able to bury it. Will I need to talk to him? Taylor asked. I’m just the person who found the letter.
I don’t know anything about the mill or what happened back then. You’re more than that, Margaret corrected her. You’re the person who had the moral courage to pursue this when you could’ve ignored it.
That matters. But no, you don’t have to speak to the reporter if you’re not comfortable. What about Iris? I don’t want her involved in this…
