I stop pacing, meet her gaze. The gray of her irises has darkened to the shade of storm clouds. “I don’t believe you.”

Sylvie grimaces. “So we’re back to me being a liar?”

“Yes.”

“Are you recording this conversation?”

I toss up my hands. “Seriously?” Moose, curled on the dog bed the hotel provided, gets up and stalks to Sylvie’s side. They watch me.

“If you don’t trust me,” she says, her voice flat, “I can track down Gabriella myself.”

“I know you can,” I say. “The question is whether you want to do this alone.” She looks away, disconnects. Despite everything, it registers like a blow. “Okay. I’ll be out of here in five.” I quickly toss clothes into my bag, head toward the bathroom for my Dopp kit.

“What do you want?” Sylvie demands.

“The truth!”

Her chin trembles. She bites her lower lip to stop it. “What if I don’t know the truth?”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

Sylvie’s hands shake as she twists her hair into a knot. “I have a recurring dream,” she finally says. “It started when I moved to San Francisco—a tree-lined street, small bungalows. I’m a little kid again, wave to a cute dog; smile at imaginary neighbors. I always woke before I walked too far. Last night I dreamt that I was there again, except the snow globe was in my arms. I reached the end of the street. There was a small house and a path beyond its gate led to a weathered gray door. I . . . I’ve seen that door before.”

“Where?”

“In childhood nightmares—monsters waited on the other side of it. Last night, standing in front of that same door, I was petrified. The globe slipped. I woke before it shattered. But I think it did shatter, in real life . . .” Sylvie rubs her forehead hard enough to leave a streak of reddened skin. “That I opened a gray door and there was a monster; that something horrific happened . . . and it was my fault.”

“What?”

Tears trickle down her cheeks. She whispers, “I don’t know and I’m terrified to find out.”

FORTY-THREE

Sylvie

Thomas squats in front of me, brow furrowed, and asks, “What do you want to do?”

Run away. “What do you think I should do?”

He hesitates. “Finding out that Dad and Deacan drowned was brutal.”

“Are you sorry I told you?”

He shakes his head. “But it’s like ripping off a bandage. The wound beneath it is ugly but the best disinfectant is sunlight.”

My gut releases a shower of acid. A few days ago the burning in my belly was uncomfortable, sometimes painful, but Tums quelled most of the heat. Despite the Prilosec, it’s getting worse. I could try to escape this . . . but I can’t outrun it. “I want to know the truth.”

I find Gabriella on my sixth call. She’s a resident of Hillcrest Memory Care in Tillamook, just a few miles down the road from Heidi’s home. The operator connects me to her room.