Beneath a calm exterior, my body quakes. Thomas’s face is pale. He starts to say something but I hold up a hand, cut him off. “Don’t forget your cat at the hotel and do leave my phone, iPad, and computer. As you’ve pointed out, I need them. Good luck with everything. I hope you win a Pulitzer to make your mom proud.”

I leave the stairwell and Thomas behind. Have to force myself to walk, not run, to the elevator and to try not to wish that Thomas would follow me. He doesn’t. I’m alone . . . but not quite. An invisible kiss brushes my temple. I hear the increasingly familiar woman’s voice and finally make out the first word she says: Come.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Sylvie

“I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

I stand there at the end of a stone path before a lacquered white door that was opened in a rush, Faith’s arms held wide. Does she expect a hug? I opt for a handshake and she ushers me inside a three-story Tudor perched at the top of a steep, manicured lawn. I take stock as I follow her—chin-length auburn hair, black leggings, and a long-sleeved top with slits along the arms that reveal toned biceps.

We walk through an elegant front hall with wood floors covered in Persian carpets. At the far end, a curved stair climbs to the second floor. Black-and-white photos of children, framed in silver, adorn the walls. Faith follows my eyes, points at a little girl with similar freckles to her own that dust a round face.

“You remember Bennett? She was seven when you came to stay with us. The other two popped out after you’d moved on. Twins.” She rolls her eyes. “That was quite the hitch in my giddy-up. Three months of bed rest for yours truly while I was an associate. I’m surprised the firm kept me on. Kids are a blessing but no one tells you what a crimp they put in your career.”

I’m still stuck on her phrase, moved on, like I was a guest in her home, or it was my choice. I don’t recall anything about Faith, her husband, or her daughter. “Sorry. I don’t remember Bennett.”

“Probably a good thing. She was a prima donna until the twins put her in her place.”

Faith leads me into a large kitchen with a farmhouse table in the center. Glass cabinets line the walls, filled with china and crystal, marble counters, two stainless steel refrigerators.

“When the kids were young, this was where all the action happened,” she explains. “Now they’re in grad school and rarely come home.” One corner of her smile hangs on.

“Is your husband going to join us?”

She shakes her head. “Scott and I have been divorced for three years. Heart problems did us in.”

“Was he sick?”

“No. He thought I was missing mine.” She gestures to a chair. “Can I get you anything?”

“Water would be great.”

Faith pours two glasses then sits across from me. She glances at her Apple Watch. “Apologies, I only have about fifteen minutes. Yoga class. It’s my sanity. You said on the phone that you had some questions?”