Oliver let go of my hands as the doctor interrupted us, pulling open the curtain to my cubicle. She greeted us with a smile. “Good news,” she said. “No break. Just a grade one sprain. The nurse will be in with a compression bandage and walking boot for you. Ice it. Keep it elevated. Should be good as new in a week or two. I’ll write a prescription for the pain.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want anything for the pain,” I said. I wasn’t going to trade alcohol for opioids. No, thank you.

She hesitated, her quizzical look giving way to understanding. “Are you in recovery?” she asked.

I nodded. I felt myself blush that Oliver was hearing this, not that it was news to him.

“See how you do with acetaminophen or ibuprofen,” she said. “I’ll give you the scrip, just in case, and you can talk to your regular doctor about it.” She held the slip of paper out to me, but I didn’t reach for it. Oliver finally took it and slid it into his jeans pocket.

We were quiet as we waited in the cubicle for someone to bring me the walking boot, but after a while, Oliver broke the silence.

“What’s her name?” he asked. “The girl you … your boyfriend … hurt? Where does she live?”

“Emily Maxwell,” I said. “Somewhere … I don’t know. The accident happened in Raleigh. Why?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I can track her down,” he said. “I have friends in high places.” He winked at me and a lightning bolt of panic pierced my chest.

“I don’t want to talk to her,” I said quickly. “I can’t. But I really wish I could just know how she’s doing.” I bit my lip. “You wouldn’t try to contact her or anything, would you?”

“Of course not,” he said. Then he smiled at me. Squeezed my hands again. “That, Morgan Christopher, would be your job.”

Chapter 40. Anna

Chapter 40

ANNA

February 28–1940

Anna awakened with a weight on her chest that made it hard to breathe. She knew that weight. It had been with her off and on since her mother’s death in November, and she knew why it was so heavy and breath-stealing this morning: today was February 28. Her mother would have turned forty-four today.

“Why, Mom?” she whispered into the air above her bed. She wished she could wind back time and do everything differently. It seemed she should be able to do that somehow, if she could only figure out the secret. If only she could go back to that argument with Aunt Alice, she could turn the horror of what happened on its head. She would still have her mother with her.