She gave Eileen another smile, so full of love and motherly devotion, and then shifted her gaze to the space all around them. Eileen watched as the confidence and self-assured authority drained away from her mother and confusion rushed onto her expression to fill the void. Her shoulders dropped two inches, and her mouth fell open. Her eyes raked back over Eileen without a spark of recognition. Eileen took a step forward and grabbed Ella’s hand, afraid that her mother might flail or fall. The nurse and the counselor took some cue that now was the time to act and moved in behind Ella, gentle and careful to not startle her as they guided her backward and into her chair.

“She’s exhausted. We’ll take her out now,” the nurse said.

Eileen nodded and watched as they released the brake, turned the chair around, and rushed Ella back up the aisle.

“Jesus,” Simon whispered as they both returned to their seats. “Is she okay? Are you? How did you get her to calm down?”

Eileen stared ahead at Clare’s frozen profile as the momentum of mourners returned and then began filing past to say goodbye. “I promised to keep her secret.”

“What secret?” Simon glanced over their shoulders, as if checking to make sure Ella was truly gone.

“I’m not sure.” She turned her head and faced him. “But it has something to do with Clare…and I think maybe Adam too.”

Chapter 28

Clare

Two years before her death

The work was affecting her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Largely because, when she had first decided to dig deep and write A Perfect Life, she hadn’t envisioned the story the way it was turning out. She was only a few chapters in, and already she was wondering if she should abandon the project altogether.

There was a darkness to them, like her mind and creative energy were being dragged down into some backwater of her subconscious. The words were crafted behind some gauzy neurological filter that she couldn’t see beyond. She only felt them. And all the words felt like loss, betrayal, regrets, and grief. For the first time in her career, she was beginning to avoid writing. Instead of marching upstairs with coffee in hand ready to jump in every morning, Clare found herself spending more time sifting through her old journals and pictures and the memories they dredged up. She would spend hours just sitting on her couch, staring out at the Pacific and thinking about her life, about her family, about Adam—about the girl she had been and the woman she had become. The beliefs she had about that woman. The beliefs she had about the events that shaped her life—this work was making her question all of it.