Even as I catalogued the differences, those weren’t really what I was looking for. I was assessing, worrying even. He looks healthy. Fit. No older than I would have expected—maybe even younger. Calm, too. Grounded. All that came with a rush of relief, that prison hadn’t turned him into a wreck of a man or a hardened convict. Then came the guilt, because I hadn’t worried about any of that with Pamela.

I took a deep breath. “I majored in Victorian lit. My, um, master’s thesis was on Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said with a smile. “What’s your favorite story?”

I could name The Hound of the Baskervilles and swing this conversation exactly where it was supposed to go. What do you know about the hounds? I felt the words on my lips, rolled them around, but just couldn’t get them out. I didn’t want that. Not yet.

“‘Silver Blaze,’” I said. “It’s one of his later ones.”

“About the racehorse.”

I nodded, and as I did, a memory sparked, something about a pony ride, me begging for one at a fair, Pamela saying no, I wasn’t old enough yet, Todd saying he’d hold on to me, and the two of us running off with Pamela sighing in the background.

He could mention that. You always loved horses. Pamela would have. That was how we talked: I’d say something and she’d tie it back to her memories of me. It was a natural inclination, but uncomfortable, that constant reminder, her need to strengthen our connection.

“There was also a dog in ‘Silver Blaze,’” Todd said. “The curious incident of the dog in nighttime, right? It’s been years since I read any of the Holmes stories. I’ll have to check them out again. The ones I remember best are . . .”

—

And so it continued. We talked, not about our shared past but finding fresh connections. Todd didn’t frantically search them out, like on an awkward first date—You like cream in your coffee? So do I!—but allowed them to rise in natural conversation. We didn’t get beyond books, and not even far beyond Sherlock Holmes, before our time ended.

When I got up to leave, he sat very still, then asked, “So, do I pass?” He smiled, and that smile, that crooked smile that lit up his eyes, was so exactly what I remembered that the dam burst and the tears streamed down.

The smile vanished and he leaned forward, hands on the Plexiglas. “It’s okay, Olivia,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”

I swiped hard at the tears. “Sorry. This isn’t . . .” I managed a wry smile. “Not really my style.”

“I know.”

He could have dredged up a memory there. You were never a crier or You always hated to cry. Todd only said, “I know.” And then, “I’m sorry.”