Maya. Why hadn’t he told me about her? Shared the fact he had a sister—stepsister—with me? He’d led me to believe he was an only child, that his mother had committed suicide and he and his father had moved to the US shortly after because they needed a fresh start. He’d never mentioned Brad remarrying, never talked about having a stepsister, not even after I’d told him about Quentin and my childhood. Why had he left out such a significant part of his life?

As I pictured Maya standing on the sidewalk, observing me, unease slithered around my feet, crawled up my legs and settled along with all the other emotions in my stomach. Had I made a mistake with the Facebook photo after all? It was possible. I’d been so desperate to find clues. Maybe I’d seen what I wanted to see. The guy in the picture had worn sunglasses. Perhaps Gordon was Ash’s doppelgänger or something, and somehow Ash had ended up with Maya’s library book when she thought it was Gordon. It would mean my coming here was a lucky coincidence, and sometimes things worked out for a reason...or fate.

I grabbed my duffel from the trunk and headed inside. While the outside of the motel seemed lackluster and windswept, somebody had taken great care and obvious joy while decorating the reception area. A wood-paneled desk with a sparkling, white quartz counter, and soft recessed lighting gave it an inviting cozy feel. Black-and-white photographs of the ocean and awe-inspiring cliffs adorned the pale walls. A mobile, the kind I’d seen on Drift’s website, with shiny pieces of polished wood cut into stars and hearts, and engraved with inspirational words such as Peace, Trust and Happiness hung in a corner, turning gently midair.

Kitchen noises and the smell of gravy wafted through the saloon doors on the right, but as nobody was behind the desk, I put my duffel down, letting my eyes wander. They settled on the rows of flyers to the left of the counter, all arranged by color, advertising an array of attractions in the area. Before I could learn more about zip-lining, local breweries or whale-watching tours, a young woman in ripped jeans and a sailor-style shirt strolled in through the saloon doors, her face bursting into a smile when she saw me. She’d pinned her curly red hair into an elaborate swirl on top of her head, turning it into a ginormous cinnamon bun, and her green eyes had the longest natural lashes I’d ever seen. Her name tag said Fiona.

“Hello and welcome.” Her smile broadened further. “How can I help you?”

“Do you have any rooms available?”

“We sure do,” Fiona said. “How many nights are you looking to stay?”

“I’m not exactly sure...two or three, maybe more?”