He does not ask who my biological father is. Does not ask about Tom or Elizabeth. Does not ask if I want to let Chrissie know I’m leaving or if I need to call Joy. All he asks is, “Where to?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, feeling lost, but I’ve grabbed his hand and am holding on for dear life. Jack is a rock in my world of shifting sands. “Just drive.”

He heads out of the lot. “Home or away?”

“Away.”

He turns left. We pass the florist with purple petunias cascading from hooks on the porch, pass the pharmacy, pass a dozen homes with wood siding painted each its own shade of gray. I see the strip mall in the distance, the one with the Urgent Care where I had first seen Dad last Friday, but before that particular memory can sink in, I spot something else.

The Hideaway, once known as Tuck’er Inn, nearly hidden under its prim canopy of ancient maples and oaks.

“Here,” I say, and a swarm of forbidden thoughts take root.

Jack eyes me in alarm when I wave him urgently toward the small parking lot. No doubt thinking I’m about to be sick, he swerves into the space nearest the road. But I wave again, this time toward the office.

Shooting me concerned looks every few seconds, he backs up and drives closer. By the time he has parked, his alarm has lowered to wariness.

I hold his gaze. “Take a room.”

“A room,” he repeats with a speculative emphasis on the m, because something in my eyes has tipped him off.

“A cottage.” My phone dings; I ignore it. “The sign says there are vacancies.”

“I see that,” he says, “but we just buried your father—”