Last night, Robin had woken up from a dream that felt more like a memory. Her mother sobbing behind her parents’ closed door, and her father urging her on. That’s it, Renee. That’s it. Let it out. Don’t run from it . . .

Had that really happened?

“Mind if I join you?”

Robin glanced up from her eggs and into those sharp blue eyes. “Nikki.”

“They told me your mom was resting, so I thought I’d grab a little bite.”

Robin gestured to the seat across from her and Nicola Crane eased into it, setting her tray down. Like Robin, she had a cup of coffee, along with a donut that looked like a reconfigured version of Robin’s wheat toast. She took a delicate bite. “I should have stopped at Dunkin’.”

Robin smiled. “Tell me about it.” She took a sip of her coffee. “So I remember you now.”

“You do?”

“Why didn’t you introduce yourself as CoCo?”

“Oh, I practically forgot about that nickname,” she said. “Only you called me that, you know.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I came up with it, of course, but you were the only one nice enough to call me by it. Everybody else thought it was silly. Your mother included.” She smiled, her teeth white against her tanned, lined skin. She wore jeans and a plaid shirt, rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular arms, a long scar on one of them. To Robin, she had the look of a farmer or a rancher or maybe a lifelong surfer.

“How did you know my mom?” Robin said.

Her bright eyes shimmered. “We were in a foster home together, years ago,” she said. “And then we reconnected once she’d settled down. She saved me from a terrible situation. Gave me money for my education. Got me on my feet.”

“So you were friends,” she said, “when you both were kids.”

“Yes,” she said.

Robin took another sip of her coffee. She leaned forward, wanting to ask the question, but fearing the answer at the same time. “What was she like?”

“She was the kindest person I’d ever known.”

“Oh thank God.” Robin exhaled, relief spreading through her.

“Like there was ever a question?”

“It’s just . . . Someone asked me about her past recently. They thought she . . . Well obviously they had her confused with someone else.”

“I don’t understand.”

Robin swallowed. “They thought she’d associated with some unsavory types when she was a teenager.”

“Well,” Nicola said, winking, “they must have been talking about me.” She laughed—a startlingly loud, shrieking laugh that seemed to pop out of nowhere, far too hearty for the situation or the surroundings. Whereas Nicola’s smile was disarming, her laugh was downright off-putting, and Robin could feel people staring at them. Her face flushed a deep red. I am having breakfast in a hospital cafeteria with Robert De Niro from Cape Fear.