NEW YORK CITY
JUNE 1858

Marianne Neumann's fingers were shaking so hard she could barely pry open the first record book. There were half a dozen more in the drawer. How could she possibly search through all of them?

At a scuffing in the hallway, she glanced at the closed office door and froze. She held her breath and prayed the footsteps would pass by. After only two weeks on the job, she couldn't afford to be caught snooping in the director's desk.

For an eternal moment she remained motionless, listening to the steps as they faded down the hall. Releasing a breath, she returned her attention to the record book bound with a plain brown leather cover.

She opened it gingerly to the front page. The date at the top read April 1855. With trembling fingers, she paged through the ledger, noting that the entries were varied in length. The handwriting changed frequently. Several pages were wrinkled and the ink unreadable where perhaps coffee or some other liquid had spilled on the page. The final entry was dated late in 1855, nearly three years ago.

She snapped the book shut and stuffed it back into the drawer where she'd found it.

Her hand slid over the spines. She had to find the records from last autumn. But which ledger contained the information she needed? She attempted to pull out another volume, but it stuck to the others on either side. The June evening had begun to cool, though not enough to lessen the humidity and heat that permeated the second story of the Children's Aid Society building.

"Come on, come on," she whispered. This would likely be her one and only chance to investigate. Which meant she had no choice but to find the information she needed about her lost sister.

Even as her shaking fingers pried another record book loose, she tried to grasp at the last vestiges of hope. Tomorrow she was leaving on her first placing-out trip and would be gone for weeks.

She had to have some clue, some small hint to guide her search while she was traveling. She couldn't go without anything.

She flipped open the book to the back entry. March 1856. She was getting closer. She returned it and reached for the next one.

Would it have records from the autumn of 1857 when Sophie disappeared? Surely the book was here somewhere.

She hadn't resorted to sneaking into the director's office just to come away empty-handed. Not only was she displeasing God once again with her sinful scheming, but she was putting her job in jeopardy. If the Children's Aid Society didn't fire her, at the very least they wouldn't allow her to accompany the children on the trip west.

At another hollow echo of footsteps in the hallway, Marianne paused. When the slapping halted outside the office door, her pulse sputtered faster. She pressed the drawer to close it.

When the doorknob rattled, panic overtook her and she dropped to her knees behind the desk. She hardly had time to duck her head before the door squeaked open. She held her breath and tried to make herself invisible. Thankfully the desk was massive.

If she'd had a moment's more notice, she might have been able to move the chair out of the way and wedge herself farther under. As it was, she'd have to pray whoever had opened the door would only peek into the office and not come inside.

The click of the door closing, however, sent a tremor through her. As someone began to cross the room, she pinched her eyes closed and shrank lower. Go away! Her mind shouted the silent command.

But the steps drew nearer.

Don't come around the desk. Please ...

When the footsteps stopped at the front of the desk, she didn't dare breathe. Her heart was racing so fast it tripped and thudded against her rib cage.

The person fidgeted with something on the cluttered desktop, scattering papers and shifting books around. The whole workspace was rather messy, shelves overflowing with books and papers, crates filled with letters and stacks of newspapers.

Even though it was the largest office in the building, it was still cramped and had only one window, which was half open.

Finally, all rustling on the desktop ceased. Marianne opened her eyes and glanced at the shoes showing underneath the desk. A black pair of leather oxfords that had been polished to a shine.

Oh no. She squeezed her eyes shut again, yet knowing it would do no good. Blocking out the surrounding images wouldn't make her disappear from this predicament, even though she desperately wished it would. And closing her eyes wouldn't make the man on the other side of the desk vanish either.

What if Reverend Brace had returned? He'd left the building over an hour ago. She thought she'd waited long enough before sneaking into his office, but had she been wrong about his schedule?

The man on the other side of the desk cleared his throat.

She cringed.

Silence settled over the room, which magnified the chatter of the children downstairs, along with the busy evening noises arising from nearby Broadway Street — the clomp and clatter of horses and carriages and the calls of vendors closing up their shops.

The stillness in the office stretched on. She would have almost believed the man had left, except when she peeked, his shoes hadn't budged from the spot in front of the desk.

"So ..." came a hesitant voice.

She jumped. She shouldn't have been startled to hear him speak, but she was. She'd sincerely hoped to avoid detection.

But apparently her hiding spot hadn't been secretive enough.

She wished the floor would swallow her up whole and she could disappear without a trace. But since that wasn't about to happen, she scrambled to find some excuse — anything — to explain her presence on the floor behind the desk.

"Can I be of any assistance?" The voice was younger than that of Reverend Brace and was unfamiliar.

Perhaps she should remain frozen and pretend she hadn't heard him. Maybe he'd get the hint she didn't wish to be discovered and would leave. However, as much as she wanted to pretend the entire situation wasn't happening, she also knew she had to salvage what she could of her reputation and job.

This man might not be Charles Loring Brace, the founder of the Children's Aid Society, but he very well could tell Reverend Brace she'd been in his office.

Marianne attempted to school her face into a mask of pure innocence while she patted the floor around her. "I was just searching for my pen." She quietly whispered a prayer of apology for her further deception. She felt awful enough for sneaking into the office. Now she was making matters worse with her lie.

"Any luck?" the man asked.

"None." She started to push herself off the floor, but before she could grab on to the desk to hoist herself up, the man was at her side, taking her arm and assisting her.

Part of her was afraid his grip would tighten like a chain and that he'd drag her from the room, march her downstairs, and expose her misdeed to the other workers who were still present. So she was surprised, when she was finally standing, that he gently steadied and then released her.

"Thank you," she managed past her constricted airways.

"You're welcome." His voice had a slow Southern drawl to it.

Even though she wanted to duck her head and slink from the room, she couldn't keep from glancing at him. And when she did, her attention...