I change directions. “You now know for sure that your parents lied—that plane crash never happened. Do you want to find out the truth about your life before you came here?”

Sylvie sniffles. “They’re not going to tell us anything.”

“Your mom won’t . . . but your dad? What if you get him alone? He gave you his phone to call Lucas. He still cares, at least a little bit.” Sylvie’s tears soak through the shoulder of my shirt and I feel like an asshole for pushing her right now.

“Dad said he’s ashamed of me.”

Anger blooms despite my desire to remain impartial. “You’re the only person who gets to decide if you’re ashamed. Are you?”

She traces a small rip in her jeans. “And if he doesn’t tell us anything?”

“Then we go at it from a different angle. Visit the foster care offices in Portland. Find your caseworker.”

Sylvie sits up. “Didn’t you get their name when you read my file?”

“My source just left a voicemail. I didn’t get to read your file.”

“Can you call them?”

“I tried to follow up a couple of times, but she won’t call me back.”

“Can’t we just call the foster office and ask?”

“Their records are all confidential. You would have to go in person, show ID, and fill out some forms to see your own records. But once we get that name, we can ask him or her what happened to you for that year-and-a-half you were in the system. That’s information they’re far more likely to give you than me.”

I take a slow breath to drain some of the adrenaline that comes with being on the verge of breaking a story. “Sylvie, you do realize that your birth parents could still be alive?” She pulls Moose closer. “What’s it going to be?” Now I get to find out if she’s been bullshitting me.

Sylvie blots her nose then toys with the Kleenex. “On one condition. It’s off the record unless I say you can use it.”

I hesitate, consider. “Deal.”

Grabbing a pillow and the folded quilt from the foot of Sylvie’s bed, I look around for a spot to sleep. The window seat has a thin cushion. It’s about five feet long, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyways.

“Seriously?” Sylvie asks. She crawls beneath the covers. “You sleep on top. And don’t get handsy.” Her eyes are swollen, cheeks tearstained, nose red, but she’s rebounded enough to make a joke.

“I’ll try to hold myself back,” I say, and am rewarded with a weak snort. Moose follows me to the other side of the bed. “And you have your buddy here ready to tear me apart.”

Sylvie’s grin makes wrinkles that look like little whiskers on either side of her nose. “Only if I tell him to.” She rolls over, her back to me. “Sleep with the angels.”

“Do they sleep?” I ask.

She turns out her bedside lamp.