Author's Note: Thanks to all for continuing to read this story! I think there may have been a technical glitch when I posted the chapter before this because I didn't get an email notification confirming it had been published, so be sure you've read that one first if you haven't already. I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Ladies, let's run through the schedule for tomorrow one more time before we send final copies to Protocol, Carpool, the Secret Service, and the Press Secretary."

Malvina Thompson strode through the bustling office in the East Wing of the White House, lighting her next cigarette directly from her last as she tossed sheets of paper onto the desks of the secretaries in front of her. To a one, each woman who had been frantically typing correspondence on a typewriter, making an important call, or filing correspondence immediately snapped to attention, their gazes locked on their boss. Grace Farrell, looking up from her desk in the corner of the room, followed suit.

"Approximately eleven in the morning," Malvina began. "The President will depart for the airport, where he will meet the Spanish Prime Minister. Approximately noon, the party arrives at the White House. The First Lady will join the President and Prime Minister for the pool spray with the press corps in the Rose Garden."

"I'm still working on her remarks for the pool spray," one of the other secretaries interrupted. "What should she say if she's asked about Spanish domestic politics and the prospects for a civil war? It's been in the news quite often lately."

"She should say nothing," Malvina said firmly. "Although her interest in European politics is well known, we can't give anyone grounds to accuse her of trying to sway another country's internal politics. Moving on: after the press corps finishes up, the party moves into the Oval Office accompanied by Secretaries Hull, Perkins, and Dern …"

Grace couldn't help but smile as she watched Malvina command the room, leading them through the schedule for the following day's state visit to ensure that everything would go off without a hitch.

The East Wing of the White House was Eleanor Roosevelt's battleship, and the incomparable Malvina Thompson was the four-star admiral the First Lady had chosen to helm it. Highly efficient and detail-oriented, always quick to spot potential issues and nip them in the bud, she was undoubtedly one of the most well-known secretaries in the country. Grace had met her for the first time years ago when Malvina had taught a workshop on speechwriting at the secretarial school, and her sharp wit and charisma had made a strong impression on all the young women in Grace's class. After Malvina had begun working as Eleanor Roosevelt's private secretary and Grace had begun working at the Warbucks mansion, they had happily had numerous occasions to work together in spite of the contentious relationship between their employers. In Malvina Thompson, Grace had found a valued mentor, a fierce advocate, and the finest role model for a career-oriented woman that she had ever known.

And it had been Malvina Thompson that Grace had called a week earlier when she needed help.

She felt a twinge of pain shoot through her heart and hastily blinked the sting of tears out of her eyes as Malvina continued to walk through the plan for the following day. She couldn't do this now, not here.

She was, of course, grateful that she had managed to find another job so quickly. One couldn't count on such good luck in these trying times. She had actually had the offer from the White House in hand even before her father's car had pulled away from the Warbucks mansion that awful night.

And it wasn't just any job offer, but a good one at that. Under the Roosevelts, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was truly the place to be in Washington. There was never a dull moment, and the White House was full of optimism that the country's fortunes would eventually turn around with a little hope and hard work. In addition, Eleanor Roosevelt was without question the most proactive and beloved First Lady that America had ever seen. Malvina Thompson was a superlative boss, and the opportunity to learn from her was the main reason Grace had been so tempted to accept her job offer earlier that summer, the first time Malvina had called her to ask if she would join the First Lady's staff. All things considered, she knew this was an incredible opportunity to make a real civic contribution and do something important for her country in its time of need.

But despite all of that, her heart was not in it now.

The last week had been one of the worst of her life. In spite of how wonderful Malvina had been with her, in spite of how polite the other secretaries were, and in spite of how welcome Eleanor Roosevelt had made her feel since her arrival, on the inside she was completely shattered. It took every ounce of her willpower to make it through the day without losing her composure until she returned to her hotel room each night, where she could be alone with her pain and cry herself to sleep. Her dreams were full of Oliver, her heart yearning for his comfort and her body aching for his touch even as the terrible sight of his face as he broke off their engagement was ever-present in her memory. The mere thought of Annie and Molly was enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes in an instant.

How long she would end up staying in this job, she couldn't say for certain. What was certain was that she needed as much distance as possible from New York while she tried to heal her broken heart.

There was plenty of work still to be done that night to prepare the White House for the visit with the Spanish Prime Minister, and she and the other secretaries were just pulling on their suit jackets to go down to the canteen for supper when she distantly heard a telephone ring in Malvina's office. There was a murmur of her voice as she answered, and a moment later Malvina appeared in the doorway again, her latest cigarette stump in her left hand and a half-gone glass of scotch in her right.

"Grace," she said, beckoning toward her office.

"What is it?" Grace asked, surprised.

She motioned for the other secretaries to go on without her. Malvina watched them go silently as they filed out of the room. When they were alone, Malvina raised an eyebrow and fixed the younger woman with a steely gaze.

"It's that ex-fiancé of yours."

Grace felt her heart suddenly drop into her stomach. "What?"

"He says it's urgent," Malvina said. "Do you want to talk to him, or should I tell him to go pound sand?"

Oliver was on the line? She could barely make sense of what Malvina had said. Why on earth would Oliver be calling her at her new job? He had made perfectly clear the last time they had seen each other that everything between them was over. She had assumed that she may never speak with him again, maybe would only ever see him from afar on the rare occasions he came to Washington for a consultation with President Roosevelt. If he was calling now, there could only be one reason: something must be wrong.

"I'll leave you alone," Malvina said, tactfully stepping out of her own office as Grace made up her mind and walked in toward the bank of telephones on the desk. "But just holler if you need me to intervene and give that bonehead a piece of my mind."

Grace nodded gratefully at the older woman as she pulled the office door shut behind her. Then, steeling herself as best she could, she picked up the telephone.

"Oliver?"

There was a long pause before she heard his voice speak on the other end, a sound that made her feel as if a tight fist were clenching her heart. "Hi, Grace."

She waited for him to go on, but he didn't. In spite of herself, she wished she could see his face on the other end of the line. Was this, their first time speaking since that terrible day when everything had fallen apart, as painful for him as it was for her?"

"What is it, Oliver?" she eventually asked curtly. "I've got a lot of work to do tonight, and I assume you have a reason for—"

"She's gone, Grace."

"Who's gone?"

"Annie's gone. She ran away."

For a long moment, Grace was silent as his words sunk in. And then a very familiar sensation took hold of her in an instant: the same cold fear that had washed over her months ago, as soon as she had heard Molly's voice reveal that the people who had stolen Annie away from the mansion were not her real parents. She grasped the edge of Malvina's desk for support, feeling suddenly dizzy.

"What?" she asked, her voice shaking. "What do you mean, she ran away? When?"

When Oliver responded, she could nearly feel his stress and worry radiating through the telephone. "She snuck out of the house this morning. Molly and Jack apparently helped her pull it off. We …" She heard him give a deep sigh of self-reproach. "We only just realized she was missing a short while ago."

"Do you have any idea where she went?" Grace asked.

There was another long moment of silence on the other end of the line. "According to the children, Grace, she's looking for you. She's trying to go to Washington."

"Washington?!" Unfortunately, every answer he gave to her questions only served to increase her panic. "But Oliver, if she got on a train or a bus this morning, she should have been here already."

"I know," he said hoarsely. "I was hoping that I'd call and you would say she had just arrived and was there safe with you."

Grace swallowed hard, feeling tears sting the corners of her eyes. "She isn't. I've been at the White House all day, and I haven't seen her." Taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to steady her racing heart, she started thinking through their next steps aloud. "Have you already reported her missing?"

"Yes, to all the authorities in New York. I just got off the line with J. Edgar. Margaret is on the other line now with the Washington metropolitan police."

"Perhaps she arrived at the gate and the Secret Service didn't let her in because no one knew she was coming," Grace murmured, almost more to herself than to Oliver. "I'll check with them first and let them know she must be allowed onto the White House compound if she shows up. Then I'll ask the guards around the entrances if they've seen a child who matches her description. And if they haven't, I'll go to Union Station myself and look for her."

"Thank you," Oliver croaked. "Let me know what you find. Please."

"I will." She was silent then, not knowing what else to say. She knew perfectly well what a state of worry he must be in, but unlike the last time Annie had disappeared they weren't together to help keep each other calm.

And in any case, that wasn't her role anymore.

She opened her mouth to speak but faltered. "I … I'll leave now. I'll call you back as soon as I can."

Without waiting for him to respond, she hung up, pulled on her suit jacket, and rushed out of the office.

The fog that had been slowly settling in over the valley when the train from Washington had pulled into the station was seeping slowly through the shuttered doors and windows of the low-slung old station, casting the light from the single lightbulb glowing weakly overhead into a shadowy haze.

Annie Warbucks was curled up in a corner of the station, doing her best to get a bit of sleep but not succeeding much at all. The mountain air was cold around her, and she shivered under the thin wool of her red sweater, which was draped over her knees and arms. Her satchel made a comfortable enough pillow, but the floor was hard and dirty and even less comfortable than her rickety old bed from the orphanage. She was hungry too, and wished she had brought more food for the journey than the apple and cookies she had eaten long ago.

At least she wasn't entirely alone. A handful of other folks had wandered into the station as the night air had cooled and the sounds of crickets and owls rose outside. They were folks who had no place else to go, just like her. None of them seemed to feel much like talking, though, which was a shame because Annie was feeling lonely. They had settled into the corners and shadows of the station, trying to keep warm under whatever layers of clothing they had and clearly hoping to be left alone.

Annie's eyes had just started to drift closed, her head lolling against the wall, when a loud slam tore her back to reality. With a start, she jumped and saw that the door of the train station had swung open and a policeman was walking in, swinging a club menacingly in his hands.

"All right, folks," he called out loudly. "Time to move on out. Time to move on out. This is public land, you know you can't stay here all night."

Jumping up instantly, Annie watched the policeman nervously as the other homeless folks in the train station started complaining.

"Come on, officer," one man was griping, "it's gettin' cold outside, can't you just move on and pretend you ain't seen us here—"

"Sorry, folks, no can do," the policeman said firmly. "Get on outta here, get on outta here." He was in the midst of starting to shoo folks out the door when he caught sight of Annie. His eyes narrowed. "Hey! Kid! You're the only new face I see in the place tonight. What's your name?"

"Molly," Annie said after a moment's hesitation, pulling at the first name that popped into her head as cold fear washed over her. This was bad news. She couldn't afford to get rolled up by a policeman, not when she had to make it on the train back to Washington the next morning.

"What are you doin' here?"

"I just came in on the train to visit my … er, my grandma," Annie started to say, "and I think she musta had some car trouble or somethin' because she's late coming to pick me up—"

The policeman cut her off, skepticism plainly written on his face as he took in her ragged clothing and small satchel.

"You're a runaway, plain as day," he said. "And from the sound of your voice, you ain't a local. Where are your folks?" Annie was silent. Seeing she was not going to answer his questions, he scowled. "Fine, kid, stay quiet if you want. But as soon as I rustle these bums outta here, you're comin' with me back to the station so we can figure out who you belong to—"

He started to reach for her, and in an instant Annie felt her feet take flight. She didn't think twice, didn't even realize what she was doing, didn't even turn to see if the policeman was following her, until her feet had raced forward through the door of the station and out into the cold dark night. The policeman's shouts echoed after her and gradually faded into silence, drowned out by the sounds of the trees waving in the wind on both sides of the road.

She wasn't sure where she was going, but she knew one thing for certain: she was not going to get caught, not tonight. Her lungs burned, her feet ached, and tears stung her eyes—but she ran on.