Kathy closes the distance between us. Hands grip my shoulders. She studies my face. “Your eyes. They’re the same!”

That’s how Gabriella recognized me, too.

Kathy hugs me hard. She used to let me ride on her shoulders. We did craft projects, played board games, and watched Mary Poppins.

“Oh, Birdie! We wanted to visit you. The police wouldn’t let us. Mom and Dad even talked about adoption after we learned you didn’t have any family left. But then you just . . . You disappeared. Mom tried to track you through the foster system but the caseworker she spoke with said that your information was private.” Kathy’s eyes shine. “Birdie, if we’d only known.”

I have to ask. “Do you think I did it?”

Kathy’s mouth falls open. “What? No! We never thought that. Tabloid bullshit. Those hacks even went through our garbage, looking for God knows what. Birdie, you were such a sweet child. The disgusting stories that were run—those journalists should’ve been ashamed.”

“Why didn’t anyone check on Mama?” I ask, my voice small. That’s what bothers me most. My mother rotted in our house for ten days and no one cared. She didn’t have any friends, either.

“I don’t know,” Kathy says. “I was just a kid back then. But I remember all the neighbors being really shocked and upset. I don’t even think they knew what Olivia did for a living. A clairvoyant? I would’ve heard about that. Mom and Dad shared that kind of secret stuff in the basement and I listened through the laundry chute.”

“How’d they end up owning Sylvie’s home?” Thomas asks.

Kathy looks confused. “That’s my name now,” I say. “Sylvie Young.”

Her eyes go wide. “Seriously? The psychic? I have a coworker who’s going to your show.” She whistles under her breath. “Just. Wow. That’s so flipping wild. Did you know that’s what your mom did, too?”

I shake my head. “Until today, I couldn’t remember her at all. There’s still a lot that’s missing. That’s why I need to go inside.”

Kathy reaches into her bag, pulls out a ring of keys. “Nobody wanted to buy the house. When the price dropped, my parents bought it, figured that eventually the story would be forgotten. It was and they kept it as a rental.” Her hands shake a little as she searches for the right key. “No one has rented for a few weeks so it’s probably stuffy, dusty,” she rambles as she fits the key in the gate’s lock and turns it. “I never go in—the place has always given me the creeps.” Her mouth presses into a grimace. “Sorry. It’s just. You know they never caught the murderer?”

My heart hurts. “Yes.”

Kathy hesitates. “I did sneak in, one time, with Billy Jacobs from the next street over. Had a crush on him so clearly I’d do anything for a chance to be alone.” She blushes. “Anyway, this wasn’t in the news . . . maybe I shouldn’t say?”