Alma struggled with the back panel of the closet, her hands stiff. It finally gave way, and she moved forward into a small room. Her jaw clenched at the sight in front of her, the space lined with beds and small sleeping bodies. She placed the wooden panel against the wall. She met sleepy eyes, heavy and struggling to stay awake.

“I’m here to help,” She said quietly. “Is anyone hurt?”

Small heads shook one after the other. A dark-haired boy sat up.

“No. Just sleepy,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“I want to see my mom and dad,” another child piped up.

“I’m going to get you home,” Alma whispered, her hands shaking, heat rising into her face.

Calm down, she reminded herself. You need to think, not give in to temper.

She dug into her purse, swiping across the screen of her phone and dialing the police station.

“This is Alma Martinez. Yes, my son, Sargent John Martinez is aware…yes…”

Her phone flew from her hand, clattering against the old wooden floor. She saw nothing, only heard the young man’s voice from earlier behind her.

“Not smart, lady.”  

“The police are on their way,” she answered, cursing the quiver in her voice. “You can add further charges to yourself if you make the wrong decision.”

--

At the encouragement of her doctor, Alma took on a post-retirement part-time job. “You should stay on the move. Helps with the joint pain.”

She took a position at the local post office. Today, she knocked a package off of the counter, box spinning across the concrete, papers sliding out in a whorl. She muttered a curse under her breath as she crouched down, the painful pop of her knee causing another expletive.

"Hey, Alma!" Her boss called to her from the front of the mailroom, his voice muffled by the plastic crates of packages and letters. "We need you out here!"

Her pace slowed as she stared at the papers, each with a neat school letterhead. A child’s face, their name, their address. Her jaw clenched, thin brown fingers rifling through papers. The strangeness of the package addressed to faraway Sweden “itched” her mind, a memory of her days on the police force. Those “brain itches” were a joke back then, until hunch after hunch caused those men to eventually shut their mouths. She hurriedly gathered up the papers.

--

“It’s strange. It seemed like a list of students, but it didn’t feel right to me,” Alma whispered into the phone. She had smuggled the contents of the package out, ignoring the twinge of her conscience. “Their ages vary wildly, there are few students, and even Google doesn’t provide much information on the place.”

  “Can’t you just enjoy your retirement, ma?” Her son said patiently after a chuckle.

That condescending tone. Lately, she noticed it from her doctor, from her kids. The familiar bustle of the station in the background reminded her it was a workday for John, and she took a steadying breath to calm her temper.

“Victus Spiritual Academy. Please look it up? And the names of the kids? I took pictures of everything.”

  “Yeah. I’ll do it as soon as I can.”

“Thank you. I’m going to go check out the school.”

“What? Now hold on…”

“Bye. Love you.”

--

Alma ducked under drooping palm fronds as she approached the front door. No sign indicated that this building was a school except for the shiny brass plaque above the doorbell. She pressed the button once, hearing the melodious notes deep within the villa. No answer. It took several presses before a blond man answered the door. He wore a long terry cloth robe, and the green fabric made his eyes stand out even in the shady alcove of the entryway.

“I am interested in finding a private school for my grandchildren. May I take a tour?”

He pasted on a smile, the corners of his lips twitching.

“Sorry, but tours are appointment only. And we don’t usually give them on Saturday.”

“But I drove all the way from Jackson, surely you can reconsider?”

“I cannot.”

Her hand slipped into her purse, drawing out a green bill.

“How about a donation to the school, then?”

The man looked down and snatched it out of her hand. He turned to walk inside, speaking over his shoulder.

“I ask you to excuse my appearance. My residence is the guesthouse in the back. I suffer from chronic fatigue syndrome and sometimes have to rest midday. Please wait in the lobby for a few moments?”

“Of course.”

Alma sat in the front room on a wood-backed loveseat, glancing at the painted portraits on the wall. Her phone buzzed in her hand.

“Hello?”

“Mom. Do not go to that house. All of those kids…they’re missing, some from other states…”

Alma felt little surprise. Her brain itches never led her astray.

“Ok, but I’m already here. I’ll look around a bit.”

“Please, mom! Just wait.”

Alma hung up the phone and silenced the ringer. She listened to make sure the footsteps were gone before standing. She wandered down a hallway, finding a classroom. She flicked on the lighting, frowning before stepping into the room. She ran a finger across one of the desks, dust coming away. She opened a closet. A dark line marred the floor of the empty space. As she was closing the door, she heard a small cough. Placing her ear to the back wall, she heard it again.

--

That package and her hunch had led her to this situation, to staring at the unnerving pallid man with her back against the wall. The man’s lip raised, a flash of sharp white. He let out a bestial noise, something between a growl and a hiss. Then he was gone. Alma fell to her knees. Her threat had worked.

Soon the villa was busy with officers and paramedics, wrapping blankets around the children and carrying them to safety. Alma sat in John’s car, eyes closed, exhaustion weighing heavily on her. Other than being drained, she had received a clean bill of health.

“What about the kids? Were they hurt?” Alma was shocked at the feebleness of her voice.

“No. They had no physical signs of abuse, and they said they were treated humanely. Oddly, they only show signs of anemia.” John placed his hand on his mother’s. “Thank goodness for a package thief who should be enjoying her retirement.”

Alma chuckled. It died away in her throat at the gravity of the situation. Her mind still itched at the unanswered questions that she was too afraid to ask.