This morning, I helped move Mom back in, met Bernie, who stepped up to take care of her while she heals so she doesn’t have to stay in a care facility. He’s a quirky old guy with fleshy earlobes and the bushiest white eyebrows I’ve ever seen. It’s clear he loves Mom. While they played cards, I’ve continued facing my own set of ghosts—the collection of Dickens that Dad bought to instill a love of reading in both his sons, the kitchen desk where Deacan did his homework, our old radio (the one from Granddad) once again perched on the windowsill, striped throw pillows Deacan and I piled on the floor when we watched favorite movies.

I’ve put it off, but now it’s time to call Annie. Perched at the foot of my childhood bed, I pull up her number, not certain what I’ll say, or do. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, champ. How’s it going?”

“It’s been a long week,” I reply.

“Do you have a story?” Annie asks, cutting right to the chase.

Yes, but it’s not the one I set out to tell. An unsolved murder; a crime perpetrated by a foster care caseworker and judge, who both broke the law to save a child. Adoptive parents who continued that lie and the repercussions for a traumatized child who grew up never knowing her real story, but was ultimately determined to find the truth. It will make a great article, sell a ton of papers, and maybe even garner an award.

“Thomas?”

“Sylvie isn’t a fraud.” I slide back, lean against the wall, decision made.

There’s silence, then: “How can you know that for sure before her show tonight?”

I hear the question Sylvie asked me in the car before I took Chris inside the vet’s office to say goodbye.

Do you believe in anything I told you?

I want to . . . but.

I finally get it—it’s a choice. “I don’t need to go to Sylvie’s show.”

“Seriously?” Annie asks.

“Yes. My exposé is that most psychics are con artists but Sylvie isn’t. She’s the real deal. Is that something the L.A. Times is willing to run?” I can hear the wheels in Annie’s head turning.

“Are you trying to protect Sylvie? Did you fall for her or something?”

I don’t answer.

“Come on, Thomas, where’s your perspective?” Annie demands. “You’re a journalist. She’s the subject. You do know that anything you think might’ve happened, romantically, is pure manipulation?”

In her own way, Annie is trying to keep me from a serious demotion, basically the end of my career. I flip through my journal, glance at the drawings of castles and wizards. I haven’t risked anything, taken a leap into uncharted territory, since I was a kid. It’s time. “I’m sorry, Annie. I’ll clean out my desk when I get back to LA.”

Annie blows out a loud breath of air then says, “Damn. You’re a good writer, Thomas. Let me know if I can help with references.”