Happy hour is in full swing in the hotel lobby. There’s laughter, the cacophony of different voices, and the clink of tiny forks on small plates. A hotel employee offers me a glass of red wine but I decline. When I reach my room, I pause. My phone, computer, and iPad will be inside and Thomas will be gone. I’ll try to forget about him and what it felt like to be honest, seen, and for a moment, even liked for me. But I know that’s not really possible. Once the genie is out of the bottle, she’ll fight, tooth and nail, to keep from being forced back inside it. Still, now that Thomas has left and I’ve hit a dead end in my search, I’ll phone Lucas and then start preparing for the show. Maybe I can’t forget what’s happened, but I can choose to move on.

A growl rumbles on the other side of the door. It’s prolonged, and so unlike Moose that I drop the key card, quickly scoop it up, and trigger the lock.

In the center of the room, Moose stands over Chris, legs splayed, lips pulled back in a snarl. Thomas crouches a few feet away.

THIRTY-NINE

Thomas

Moose and I are at a standoff. I came to grab my bag, give Sylvie back her electronics, and return to LA, where I’ll continue to investigate the mystery behind Sylvie’s birth parents and adoption. If I use what I already have, go back on my promise to Sylvie to keep things off the record, I can turn that new information into a story about both Sylvie as a fraud and the lies from her childhood that led her to be a con artist. Annie might run that article, but I’d rather keep investigating, solve the bigger mystery. My instinct tells me it’s where the beating heart of the story lies. If Annie demotes me to obits, I’ll quit, find another newspaper once my exposé is finished. It’ll sell—it might even garner an award.

“Why are you still here?” Sylvie demands.

I wanted to be gone before she returned from Faith Benson’s, but Cujo barely let me in the hotel room. The closer I got to Chris, the louder his growls. Full snarl, he truly could guard the gates of hell. And I’m pretty sure, if I touch my cat, he’ll rip my arm off. The look on Sylvie’s face now—surprise and disappointment, underlined by hurt—is hard to take. I’d hoped never to see her again; or more accurately, never again see a look on her face like the one in the hospital’s stairwell—like I’d spit on her. I don’t know what to feel anymore—furious-ashamed-desperate-enraged-insulted-uncertain—and so fucking drawn to her.

Warily eyeing Moose, I stand. “He won’t let me get near Chris.”

“It’s okay,” Sylvie tells her dog and he hangs his head low, whines. She kneels beside my cat. “Chris’s breathing is all wrong.”

Sharply, I say, “I know. I spoke with Dr. VanVoorhies. She’s waiting at the clinic.” Sylvie carefully carries Chris over, Moose at her heels. She weighs next to nothing in my arms. Now that I have her, that I can leave, my chest collapses and it’s hard to breathe. “I don’t know . . .” My voice breaks.