Sylvie asks, “Why is it so important to you?”

“I’ve spent the past twenty-plus years trying to contact my husband and son. There have been times when I thought maybe I had, psychics and mediums that almost had me convinced. But despite my son’s belief that I’m a dotty old bat, I know those connections weren’t real. That’s why I’ve kept trying. On plenty of occasions, I was ready to toss in the towel, but I just can’t.”

Sylvie tips her head and fans her ear like there’s a fly buzzing near it. “I’m sorry.” She turns and disappears down the hallway.

I catch her halfway to the lounge. “Stop.” She doesn’t, so I grab her arm.

Sylvie shakes free, backs into the wall, and demands, “What do you want from me?”

Why didn’t I tell Sylvie to steer clear of Mom’s room? I consider all the people I’ve seen her read—at her shows, strangers, Madison, Max, Levi. My mother has two feet buried deep in the past. Does it matter how she moves on, whether it’s a trick, a show, or Sylvie’s desire to provide closure? I’ve accused Sylvie of robbing people of a natural and necessary process that follows the death of a loved one. But that assumed everyone has the ability to get on with life. My mother doesn’t—she never has.

“Thomas?”

I rest the flats of my hands on the wall to either side of Sylvie’s head. She tips her chin to meet my gaze. Anyone looking might mistake us for a couple. Is that what I want? I can’t destroy Sylvie’s reputation and expect to be her boyfriend. I gently run my thumb along her cheek, capture an eyelash, make a wish. No matter what happens, please be okay.

“What do you want?” Sylvie repeats.

“Will you . . . will you give Mom a reading?”

“Thomas. I might . . . there’s no guarantee . . . or that it’ll help.”

“I know that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Sylvie

I settle in the chair by Eve’s bedside, place my marker on the rolling table next to a mauve-colored plastic water pitcher. “Do you have something for me to hold?”

“In the closet.” Eve waves an impatient hand. “There’s a pin on my sweater.”

Thomas withdraws a hunter green wool sweater. The scent of mothballs and lavender, old lady smells, tickle my nose. Carefully, I remove the pin, put it in my left palm. It’s a black oval locket with a single diamond in the center that looks like a star. If I opened it, there would be two photos inside—her husband and dead son. I’m sure of it. Thomas leans against the window, watches. This could change everything.

“Full disclosure,” I say. “I know how your husband and son died. That your family was watching TV, Deacan and your husband went for ice cream. It was raining and their car slid on a bridge, broke through the guardrail, and plunged into the river.”