Dr. Johnson closes his eyes. “The first name started with a G . . . maybe Greg? No, it was longer.” He opens his eyes. “Sorry. Old age can be an unkind fellow.”

I force a smile. “Thanks so much for making the time.”

“My pleasure.”

He tips his cap then strides off and, with him, the last of my hope. “Let’s head back to the hotel.”

Thomas reaches out, squeezes my hand. “We’ll think of something.”

“Gabriella!” Dr. Johnson shouts in the distance and hurries back. “Her name was Gabriella H. Bryant.”

My brain flips through the photographs along the top of Heidi’s piano. Almost all of them were with her sister.

Heidi said . . . Both Briella and I were so very lucky. We were called to our respective careers . . .

I asked . . . Did anyone in your family support you?

Briella. Always. No questions asked.

The bottom of the letter my dad gave me flashes. PS G is on board.

I meet Thomas’s questioning gaze. “Briella is Gabriella. Gabriella Hiddleston Bryant. She’s G. Let’s go.”

FORTY-TWO

Thomas

There’s a four-block square near our hotel with food carts that sell Mexican, Greek, Korean, Indian, Southern BBQ, Thai, and every imaginable kind of fusion. We buy sushi for lunch and bring it back to our room so we can eat while we work. I Google “Gabriella H. Bryant,” find her immediately. “She went to University of Oregon, honors program, graduated summa cum laude, then Lewis & Clark Law. Practiced family law for seven years before getting elected to serve as a family court judge for Manus County, Oregon. She retired in 2015 after serving forty-two years on the bench.”

Sylvie finishes her unagi then says, “Briella has Alzheimer’s. Heidi said on good days she remembers me. If she’s that far gone, she’s in a care facility. Heidi visits so it must be pretty close.”

I search for Alzheimer treatment centers within a few hours’ drive from Tillamook and find twelve. Four of those are in Tillamook. Sylvie chews her lower lip. “What’s wrong?”

“What if she doesn’t remember?”

“It’s possible,” I have to admit as I dial the first number.

“You can’t just call them,” Sylvie says.

“Why not?”

“Patient confidentiality issues.”

“Cherry Lane Memory Care,” a woman chirps on the other end of the line.

“Gabriella Bryant’s room, please.”

“One moment . . . I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have a resident by that name. You might have us confused with Cherry Walk Retirement?”

“You’re right. Thanks for your time.” I hang up, nod at Sylvie’s phone. “You take half the list. Divide and conquer.” She grabs two Cokes from the mini-fridge, pops the tops, and hands me one then perches on the arm of the couch. I watch her dial the first number. Her knee bounces and her eyes shine with excitement. She nibbles her lower lip and my chest cinches. How can I have these kinds of feelings for someone who’s so wrong for me?