“Will do. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me. And Annie?”

“Yeah?”

“Go on a real date, okay?”

She chuckles. “Good luck, T. Holmes. I hope you find a soft place to land.”

I hang up, lie back on my pillow, and stare at the stars Deacan had glued to the ceiling decades ago. In the other room I hear Mom laugh at something Bernie said. She sounds like a young woman. Bernie’s got this. I pull up the United Airlines app and find a flight back to LA for tonight. Sylvie’s show is at 7:00 p.m. I consider staying in Portland, attending it, but she hasn’t called. She’s made her choice.

I book the ticket.

Surprisingly, there’s no bitterness that I lost the article. I understand, now, why survival was more important than anything to Sylvie. Whatever happened in that house, she lived through it. Ten days with a dead mother who she believes spoke to her the whole time? Who am I to say it’s impossible. Regardless, I don’t want to be a reminder to Sylvie that there are doubters. There will be enough detractors as her career hits the stratosphere.

If I’m honest, though, there’s a part of me—the guy who watched her face disappointed parents, helped her ask and answer tough, sometimes brutal, questions, let go of lies, who worked with her to uncover the truth—that doesn’t want to let Sylvie go. I only really knew her for five days, but I’ll never forget her. Do I love the myth, a complex web of lies, a real person, or the version she showed me? I don’t know.

My duffel is already packed. I turn off the light in my childhood bedroom, say goodbye to Mom and Bernie, then head toward the unknown.

FIFTY

Sylvie

Moose watches me slide into my sleeveless black silk jumpsuit. The beads along the edge of the neckline sparkle beneath the hotel bathroom’s overhead light. I fasten diamond hoop earrings and slide the sapphire infinity ring onto my index finger, sweep my hair into a chignon, apply makeup and red lipstick. When I stare at my reflection, another one wavers beside it. Mama. Dark hair falls in soft waves around her heart-shaped face; gray eyes the same shade as my own watch me.

Come out, little bird . . .

Moose chuffs and Mama’s image fades away. For a moment I consider calling my adoptive parents, telling them the truth about my past. But they never wanted to know, and finding out that my birth mother was a clairvoyant wouldn’t make my choices more acceptable to them . . . so I let go. It will always hurt, but pain doesn’t mean it’s the wrong decision. I recall Thomas’s face as he walked out the door two nights ago. Letting him go is harder. But I do, because every dream has a price.

There’s a knock and hope flutters in my belly, but when I open the room’s door, it’s Lucas, not Thomas.