“What about her? I worked for her a few years back. Great kids, though one had some behavioral issues.” She starts to play with the ends of my ponytail, and I feel myself sinking into her, despite my resistance, like her body is a warm bath into which I can’t help but descend.

“She said she didn’t know you. In a message from Facebook.”

Anneliese laughs. “Honey, you and I both know how many people there are on social media. And how many people there are with fake names, at that. You probably found the wrong one. In fact, I don’t even think Mrs. Garcia had a Facebook account. She’s a very private person, so I’d be surprised if she did.”

Of course that’s true about Facebook, but I can feel her twisting it. I’m still not satisfied, my mind still whirling through all the possibilities, the little mental trapdoors Anneliese could be snapping open or shut to exonerate herself. “But how do I know? You’re telling me there are fake Fauna Garcias out there? How do I know you’re not lying? I’m not as gullible as you think I am.”

She stops playing with my hair and puts her hands to her sides, releasing me from her embrace. “I guess you just have to trust your instincts. If that means severing our relationship, one that you and I both know has been a huge part of your healing, then by all means, I’m not keeping you from opening that door and walking out. But maybe you should be a little bit more positive, Sue, have a bit more faith in people. You aren’t weak, never were. You always had your mother’s good judgment. You know I love you unconditionally, and nothing will change that.”

I nod, and she looks so sincere, her face so placid and open, that I don’t want to question any of it anymore. I don’t want to fight. I just want to be.

I am suddenly so, so tired, my eyes heavy with lack of sleep, with the need to lie down on Anneliese’s lap, close my eyes, and stay there for an eternity. “But what about the photo album? You never finished showing it to me.” My voice sounds useless, hollow even to my own ears.

Anneliese laughs wholeheartedly this time, a rumble that begins in her chest, that I can feel through her shirt. “That’s because I got a smart phone, silly! All the other pictures I took after 2005 were in my phone. Which, of course, kept breaking.” Her words are so measured, so certain, so steeped in logic, that I suddenly feel severely ashamed, angry that I got so wrapped up in Beth’s conspiracy theory.