Sylvie grabs my arm. “They must’ve. So how do we find out who I was?”

Room service arrives. Pizza and two salads—we both dig in. “Heidi’s a dead end,” I say between bites. “For argument’s sake, let’s assume Gabriella was tracking. She said some situations were horrible . . .” I tip back my beer and drain it. “She listed a bunch. Brother and sister beaten by a boyfriend, crack-addicted baby . . .”

“Molestation, children burned, chained.” Sylvie grimaces. “But we don’t know if any of those situations involved me. I don’t have any burns. The scar on my hand is from some sort of cut.”

I hate my next thought. “Can’t rule out that there might’ve been sexual abuse.”

Sylvie blanches. “Agreed. Let’s move on. If I was born addicted to drugs, wouldn’t I have some learning disabilities?”

“You didn’t speak for almost a year. Maybe you didn’t talk before then, either?”

“Dr. Johnson said I read the first line in a book.”

“In French.”

“How could I do that if I’d never spoken aloud?” She nibbles a pizza crust. “ ‘The law is the law,’ that’s what Gabriella said about those cases. Like there was never anything she could do to save those kids—”

“Except for the last one,” I point out. “She said, ‘Sometimes the law needs a swift kick in the ass.’ ” I scratch the stubble along my jaw. “It gives the impression that the last case was somehow different, right?”

“ ‘Mom murdered, little girl stayed with her . . . a delivery guy noticed the smell, called the police . . . media was on that one like buzzards to—’ ”

“ ‘Roadkill,’ ” I finish. “But we’re hanging on to the memories of a woman with Alzheimer’s. Sylvie, what she said? It might all be fiction.” My phone vibrates. Bullfrogs croak. “Something could’ve gone wrong.” Sylvie nods and I pick up. “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”

“I-I just wanted to see how you’re doing . . . after hearing about Dad and Deacan?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Can I call you back?”

“Are you planning to come by again?”

There’s a note of neediness in her voice that repulses me. She’s spent the last twenty years basically living for my dead father and brother. Guilt has a thousand faces. It’s going to take a while to adjust, if she’s truly determined to repair our relationship. “I’ll swing by tomorrow. Gotta go now, though.”

“I do love you,” she says.

My thumb hovers over the red disconnect button . . . “Hey, Mom, you still there?”

“Yes?”

Sylvie holds up her empty beer, nods at mine to see if I want another. “Yeah, thanks.” She crosses the room to the minibar on the far side. Quietly, I ask, “Do you remember a big story in Oregon, early 2000s, about a woman who was murdered?”

“I’d need more detail than that.”

“The body wasn’t discovered for a while. A delivery guy noticed the smell, called the cops. They found a little girl—”