Hope splashes into a puddle at my feet. “When did she die?”

Max holds up both hands. “Oh. No! Sorry to make you think that. She retired in 2002. Far as I know, Heidi is very much alive. Saw her ’bout ten months back at a Rotary thing.”

“What’s her last name?” Thomas interjects.

“Hiddleston. Don’t have her number,” Max says, “But she lives on the way to the coast. Tillamook, ’bout an hour from Portland, ’pending on traffic.”

The idea that I might talk to someone today who knew me, before, sends a jolt through my body and the conviction that finding out the truth about my birth parents is more important than I’d ever imagined . . . but why?

“Please give Heidi my best if you chat, won’t you?” Max asks.

“Will do.” I stand. “Thanks for your help.” Max holds on to my hand after we shake.

“One of my favorite authors is C. S. Lewis. You ever read him?”

“No,” I say. Max’s fingers press harder.

“C. S. Lewis said, ‘You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.’ ” Max gives my hand a final squeeze then releases it. He shrugs. “Always thought that was mighty fine advice for foster kids.”

I look over my shoulder before Thomas and I pass through the building’s double doors to the street. Max still watches us, jaw clamped tight. Certainty bites hard. The truth about my biological parents is darker than I’d imagined. But I have to know.

TWENTY-SIX

Thomas

When we return to the hotel, Madison is no longer at reception. It doesn’t mean anything. The idea that Sylvie prognosticated a disaster on the other side of the world, that Madison’s brother was somehow involved, is absurd. We stop at the concierge’s desk. The guy behind it is mid-thirties sporting a dark blue suit, red tie, hair slicked back.

He peers up. “Can I help you, sir?”

I ask, “Do you have a pharmacy delivery for Room 816?”

“Let me check.” He opens one of the desk’s drawers, withdraws a small brown bag. “Here you go.”

I pull some singles from my wallet to tip the guy. “Thanks much.” My feet stick. “Ah—”

“Yes, sir?”

Don’t do it. “There was a young woman at reception earlier today. Madison?”

The concierge’s smile slips a degree. “That’d be Madison Farrow. Yes?”

“She was very helpful and I, we, wanted to thank her. Do you know when she’ll be back from her break?”

The concierge folds well-manicured hands, lowers his voice. “I’m sorry to say there’s been a family emergency. I don’t know when Madison will be back to work.”

We don’t talk as the elevator climbs. Something else could’ve happened to Madison’s family—a grandmother’s heart attack, a sister’s car accident, an aunt’s stroke, a dog’s broken leg; it’s not Brian.

“She might’ve just lost her brother,” Sylvie finally says.

I bark, “Leave it.” But the devastating loss and loneliness I felt after Deacan’s death still floods in. My eyes burn. Stop it. Over the past year there have been times when Victor and Doug also knew or predicted the seemingly impossible. Each time I figured out how they’d managed the trick. If Madison left work because something happened to her brother, then I’ll figure out Sylvie’s hoax, too.