We drink green tea at a farm-style wood table in a modern kitchen. Worn soapstone counters, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, proofing oven, and well-used six-burner Wolf stove showcase that cooking is a priority in Sylvie’s childhood home. Hana doesn’t offer sugar but I force down the pale green liquid. Sylvie cradles the teacup between her hands and watches the steam curl. When Hana offers me a shortbread cookie, I take two to overwhelm the dishwater taste in my mouth. Sylvie takes one but doesn’t eat it.

This house isn’t what I expected. Every wall is hung with photos. The ones in the kitchen show Sylvie fishing beside her dad, making pies with Hana, ballet class in a pink tutu, rafting down river rapids with her mouth in a perfect O of fear and jubilation. It appears an idyllic childhood. The shot of her graduation in the hallway was the most telling. Unlike her parents, she didn’t look into the camera. Did she know she was going to leave then? Would I have had the courage to turn my back on the path my parents had chosen for me? I never faced that decision. After Dad and Deacan died, I was mostly on my own. I have to give Sylvie some credit. It takes strength to embark into the unknown. It also takes strength, though not of character, to perpetrate a scam on Sylvie’s level.

Sylvie asks, “How’s the weather been?”

Hana takes another sip of tea. “Warm spring. Buds came early. Cherry growers are worried.”

I ask, “Why?”

Sylvie spins her cookie on the table. “If the buds come too early and we get a heavy frost, it kills them,” she explains. “And if the fruit comes in too early and we get a week of heavy rain, the sugar soaks up the water and the cherries split. That’s why cherries are way more risky than pears or apples.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Hana asks.

I wait for Sylvie to reply but she raises one brow. She wants to make me lie. “A year.” That’s how long I’ve been researching my exposé.

“How’d you meet?”

Two can play this game. “At one of Sylvie’s shows, right, honey?”

Sylvie smiles. “Thomas came onto the stage for a personal reading. He was married for five years. His wife died, cancer—it was a really, really sad situation. He brought her wedding ring for me to hold, so I could connect to the other side.”

Hana abruptly stands. She opens the refrigerator door, pulls out chicken breasts and an assortment of vegetables; withdraws a cutting board from an island drawer. She woodenly says, “I’m sorry for your loss, Thomas.”

I nod to avoid the lie. Sylvie puts a hand on my arm, gives it a squeeze. The warmth from her palm seeps into my skin. Her fingers are long, elegant. When they ran through my hair, I reflexively leaned in. My face warms at her touch, and I slide my arm free.