“I mean exactly that. You think she dedicated this book to her dead friend?”

Eileen shook her head. It wasn’t possible. Was it? Had Clare seriously never told Simon? Hidden it from him all these years? “He was her boyfriend,” Eileen breathed.

“She never mentioned that.”

Eileen felt the blood drain from her face. “He died in the accident…in high school?”

“Yes, I remember she said something about that. They were good friends, and he had died in a car accident, or something. That was why she got that tattoo on her back. She said she got it done at a hole-in-the-wall place in Cheyenne, right after he died. She said they didn’t do a very good job. The whole thing was blurry, bleeding at the edges. I always assumed it was one of those impulsive things you do when you’re younger and end up regretting later.”

He remembered something about that? “The car accident?” Eileen tried again. “She never told you…they were both in it, Adam and Clare.”

Simon shook his head. “She never said that.”

Eileen wracked her brain, trying to imagine how her sister had spent a life with this man and never shared any information about the most traumatic event in her life.

Simon got up from the couch and walked to the plate-glass windows that reflected the light and images of the room back at them. He turned and looked around Clare’s office, from the ceiling to the floor. He stared at her bookcase, her artwork, and finally his eyes landed on her desk. In a few strides, Simon stood before Clare’s desk and reached behind her monitor. He held something in his hands, but with his back to her, Eileen couldn’t see what it was. He turned around and came back to the couch, holding the object in his hand out for Eileen to take. “Who is that with her?” he asked.

Eileen took the small picture frame and looked at the young faces, smiling, so obviously in love. “It’s Adam.”

“She took his last name.”

“She did.”

He sat back down on the couch and laced his fingers on top of his head, like he was trying to hold it together, his thoughts, everything he thought he knew, everything he now realized he didn’t know.

“I’m sorry, Simon.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m the one who didn’t…and she…how could I not know?” He unlaced his hands and reached for his glass on the table. He took a drink as he picked up Clare’s journal from the couch. “I want to know,” he said. “I don’t care what she would think. I need to know. Everything.”

“I don’t know everything,” Eileen admitted. “Clare was mostly a mystery to me.”

“To us both,” he corrected. “But we can piece together as much as we can.”