Then his quiet voice, as he bent to fix a scraped knee or whisper in my ear after a bad dream. I had vague images of Pamela as a warm and loving mother. But Todd? The moment I heard him speak, those memories flooded back, sharp and clear, and the tears started. They didn’t begin as prickles or even drops. I felt them streaming down my face, soaking my collar, my cheeks wet, my skin red-hot.

“Can you turn around, Olivia?”

He didn’t call me Eden. He didn’t stumble on my adopted name, as Pamela did. He was being careful, so very careful.

I took a slow step back and bumped the stool.

“There. Now sit down.”

The woman sitting next to me stopped complaining about the neighbors and stared at me, her face scrunched up like I was covered in plague boils.

“Ignore her,” Todd said, his voice sharper, and he must have glared at the woman, because she turned away quickly. “Ignore everyone else.”

I felt myself nodding and settled onto the stool.

I should turn around.

I can’t.

This is stupid. I’m making a fool of myself.

“It’s okay.”

I nodded again.

“You went to Yale, right?”

The question threw me, and I hesitated before saying, “Yes.”

“Okay, so tell me what you studied.”

I paused again. Of all the things he could ask . . .

“Olivia, I’m not going to talk about the past or what I remember about you or ask what you remember about me. I know how tough this is, so I just want you to talk to me. Tell me something about yourself, about your life.”

“I—I have questions.”

His voice softened. “I know. You can ask me anything you want, but you don’t need to.”

“I should. I’m supposed to . . .”

I’m supposed to be interrogating you. I came for answers that Pamela won’t give, but I don’t want to do that. Not now. Not yet.

“You can come back,” he said. “Anytime you want, you can come back, and I will answer everything I can.”

I started to turn, fists clenched at my sides. And I froze again, heart pounding, breath coming short, a panic attack threatening.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice so low it was barely audible through the speaker. “This is fine. I’m just glad you came.”

I nodded, tears welling again. Then I turned and looked at him. The first thing I thought was, He looks exactly like I remember. He didn’t, of course. It’d been twenty-two years. The shoulder-length blond hair had been cut, though it was still not short. His face had shallow creases and lines. He seemed smaller than I’d expected, though I chalked that up to a child’s perspective. He was maybe five-ten, lean and wiry. His eyes, though? They were exactly what I remembered: green eyes, the mirror image of mine.