The man next door watches us get into the car. So does Heidi, by the twitch of her living room’s curtains. She does know the truth, but we won’t get it from her.

Sylvie shifts on her seat to face me. “You just kissed me.”

I focus on the road. “I shouldn’t have.”

She’s quiet for a few minutes then says, “I’ve screwed up my chance. Heidi will never tell me the truth now.”

I tamp down the heat from our kiss. “There’s always another avenue. Let’s go back to Clementine.”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“I agree. But the names of families who foster kids have to be on file, right?” Sylvie sniffles. I ignore the desire to put an arm around her, pull her close.

She says, “Maybe. Probably.”

“So we’ll ask for a list from 2000 to 2002. Call every single one of them and see if any remember you. They might know your story.” I glance over. Sylvie is wrecked—smudges of gray beneath red eyes, face drawn. “Get some sleep while I drive back?”

Sylvie finds a paper napkin, blows her nose. “Are you just being nice to me because I cried like a big baby?”

No. “Maybe.”

Eyes closed, she asks, “Why did you kiss me?”

Heat courses through my body. I have to concentrate to stop its downward path before I get hard. “Why’d you kiss me back?” I’m relieved when, a few minutes later, Sylvie’s breath steadies. The kiss was a mistake. Any good journalist knows when they’re on to a bigger story than the original one. It’s like a wolf scenting blood. The evidence I already had about Sylvie and her shows, added to the information from time with her parents is good, but this deeper layer plus bombing at her show without research will knock the ball out of the park. I promised all of it was off the record unless Sylvie agreed I could use it. Will I keep that promise? I’m even less sure now.

What about Madison’s brother? Everything has an explanation. I just haven’t found that one yet. Maybe it’s as simple as people winning the lottery despite a billion-to-one odds. I glance at Sylvie, now slumped against the window. Asleep, she looks fragile. I can’t let myself get distracted. In a few days, I’ll be back in LA and on to the next story.

Why did you kiss me?

If I’m honest, I’ve wanted to kiss Sylvie ever since she walked out on that LA stage. Again, each time we fought. I’ve wanted to since she got Chris to eat and was so sweet with her; as I watched her twist, braid, and knot her hair; when her parents were cruel; after her panic attack; during our fight on the train, her face inches from mine; I wanted to kiss her and more when we shared her childhood bed, the moon’s reflection a silver streak along her shoulder’s curve. I had to move to the window seat to stop myself.