“Not much. Some bunk beds, the comforters were red, cracked vinyl seats in the back of a car, and driving to my new home in High River.” Sylvie has a dimple in her right cheek when she grins. “Hana and Wess were on the front step, waiting like it was Christmas and I was the gift under their tree.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange that you can’t recall anything before that?”

“Not really. How much do you remember from when you were a toddler? Are those even your memories or are they stories your parents told you or ones you stitched together from old photos and home movies?” Sylvie shrugs. “I didn’t have that.”

I drum my fingers against the cold window. “I get where you’re coming from. But you have an eidetic memory.”

“Maybe there was nothing worth remembering.”

“I’d think your birth mother and father are worth remembering.”

She twists her hair into a bun, secures it with an elastic band. One lock falls free, frames the side of her face. “You can’t have it both ways, Thomas. According to you, they don’t exist.”

“I said there’s no evidence that they died in a plane crash. As for their existence, it’s sort of a biological imperative. So far, though, I haven’t been able to find out anything about them.”

Sylvie dramatically rolls her eyes. “In case I didn’t make myself clear before, I don’t believe you.”

I twirl my pen around a knuckle. “Did you ever try to contact them?”

Sylvie shifts on the couch then crosses her legs, taps her thighs. “No.”

“Why not? If they died in a plane crash, then they’re on the other side, right?”

Her gaze hardens. “Right.”

“So go ahead, reach out now so we can clear up this part of your backstory—I’m all ears.” Sylvie is silent. I throw up my hands. “Fine. Obviously you aren’t capable of telling the truth.”

“Wess and Hana are the only parents I’ve ever known,” she finally says. “It’s disloyal to make contact with my birth parents.”

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Sylvie scowls. “Plenty of adopted kids decide not to reach out to their biological parents. Just because mine are dead doesn’t make the act feel any less like a betrayal.”

I shake my head. “Occam’s razor.”

“Meaning?”

“The most obvious answer is the correct one. Your entire career is smoke and mirrors. You don’t have the ability to contact anyone.”

“Connecting with people who’ve passed is not like dialing someone on the phone. It’s never a sure thing.”

I chuckle. “Nice deflection. I’m sure it takes a very special person. That’s why you charge so much for the honor.”

“Sarcasm is the poor man’s wit.”

“Guilty.”

Sylvie abruptly stands. “I’m starving. Let’s get dinner.” Without waiting, she walks out the door and there’s no choice but to follow her.

The dining car is empty, tables with white tablecloths set, battery-powered candles in their centers lit. We eat in silence except for the scrape of our forks and knives and the waiter’s occasional questions. We both order the chicken and mashed potatoes and skip the red wine. Neither of us wants to be off our game. When I reach for a roll just as Sylvie does, our fingers brush and we both withdraw like we’ve touched fire.