CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

New York City

"I don't want to sleep," Liam said, nestling into her. "Let's talk and talk. All night."

She laughed. "You'll never get up in the morning."

"I don't care. It's my last day. I can wrap up, talk to people. They'll be happy."

"I hate to hear last day ."

He kissed her fingertips. "Yeah."

"I'm dying to see you in that world," Tillie said.

"It's not really me. Not anymore."

"What do you mean?"

He rolled onto his back. "It wasn't supposed to be ... this. I like helping people, and I mean, I guess this does that, but I don't like the celebrity aspect. That makes it more about me than about the meditation, and that's exactly the wrong angle."

She wanted to practice listening as he listened. She waited.

After a long moment, he continued. "I don't think it's good for me."

"In what way?"

"I'm trying to be human and in the middle of humanness, and this gig takes me out of that."

"Maybe you should stop."

"Right." He shoved hair behind his ear. "I mean, obviously. But there's a whole team wrapped up in these appearances, and people have paid good money for the workshops. In some places, they've been waiting for three months to get to one."

"I can see why that might cause some pressure."

He looked so sad that she crawled up close and curled over his chest, forcing him to cradle her. "Do we have any time tomorrow?"

"A little." He brushed hair away from her face, his fingers lingering near her ear.

"Are you going back to New Zealand?"

"No. The tour isn't over. We head to England, then ..." A hand spread out into the room. "Europe."

A pain pressed the air from her lungs. "I hate that."

"Me, too."

"Then let's talk all night, and I will take you somewhere I love tomorrow. How about that?"

"Good."

"I don't know why, but this does feel—"

He nodded. "I know." He kissed her. "I know."

They did talk, but at some point, they both fell asleep. He was bending over her when she woke up, already dressed. "I should be done by noon."

She reached for his hand and kissed his palm fervently, then tucked it beneath her cheek. This was the last time he would be in her room in the morning, and the idea made her whole body hurt. As if he sensed it, he knelt on the covers and gathered her naked into his fully clothed embrace, then kissed her hair, forehead, nose, and mouth. "I promise I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Okay," she whispered, and reluctantly let his hand go.

He kissed her one more time, lingering, and then with obvious effort, pushed himself away. "Eat something."

Then he was gone, and she was alone in the apartment, in the silence, aching at the loss of his company. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling. "Tillie Morrisey," she said aloud, "you are a fucking idiot."

Instead of lying there, pining, she forced herself to get up and shower, make coffee and an actual breakfast of a fried egg and toast. It was remarkably fortifying. Habit kicked in, and she donned an apron and headed for her easel.

The angel sketch waited. Almost alive, with an energy she found difficult to ignore. She couldn't use it in the show, and she really didn't have time to be messing around with something that wasn't directly for the show, but she couldn't resist doing just a little work on it. While he was fresh in her mind. As she started to paint, she realized that she didn't have any photos of him, and she needed to rectify that tonight. What if she never saw him again?

What if? Her cynical side sneered. Get real. This is it.

Which she couldn't think about. Enough time to have a broken heart after he left. She didn't want to pre-break it.

Going with the vision she had last night of his hair, she used a tiny brush to paint very small lines of metallic gold through the length of his locks, adding more across the crown of his head. Touches along the wings, so subtle they almost couldn't be seen. A minuscule bit in his eyes.

Good. She stepped back and admired her work. It was a very solid sketch, and she could make an actual painting from it, but for at least a couple of hours, she needed to keep working on the show.

Gazelle girl was excellent, and Tillie chose her, changing the color of her fur to a pale turquoise to match the ombre in her hair, with a block of the same color over her nose. She had an urge to add horns, and had to look up whether the females had them. They did, so she outlined them in a sienna shade.

It was a good morning of work, and she was glad when her timer went off. Sticking to her wish to be cleaned up and dressed when Liam came back, she took a second shower to wash her long hair and blow-dry it perfectly straight, and even added a little makeup. It was never a lot because she'd never really learned, but some lipstick and mascara to accent her best quality—thick, long lashes. If she were to paint herself, she'd choose a llama for those lashes.

Just after noon, she was ready. And immediately restless. She couldn't sketch, or she'd get drawn into her practice, and then her good jeans would be a mess. Her new sweater made the most of her meager curves, and it cost a fortune, so no painting.

A text came in from Liam: Sorry. I have to sit down for a minute with an important donor. Will be leaving in about 20.

Which meant it would be another hour before he got there. She made another cup of coffee, taking her time with each step, then sat down at the table with her back to the studio, and opened her laptop.

All the questions about her mother came rushing back. Who was she? Who was the dead child to Tillie? It was unsettling that it seemed as if Arlette had used Tillie to replace that lost girl. Why else would she keep the same name?

And they were the same age. Which was impossible, really, unless she was a twin or something, and no twin had shown up in any report of anything. It seemed that there would have been a report of the twin surviving.

A rustle moved through her at that thought, a flash of hiding beneath the covers with somebody, speaking in a language that wasn't English. She leaned into it, closing her eyes to see if she could gather anything else.

Nothing.

She sighed. One thing she should be wary of was the real possibility of manufacturing memories because she so desperately wanted to find answers.

Facts. Stick with facts.

The one piece of information she had picked up yesterday was the man who might have been Arlette's boyfriend when they'd first arrived in town. She clicked open her notes app, scanning down the various tidbits she'd collected yesterday to find his name. Eddie Johnson.

She googled his name and the words phone number , and there he was. Eddie Johnson, 2397 Old Farm Road, 518-555-9865. He must still have a landline, which was not surprising in the country, especially since he was likely in his seventies or better.

Taking a breath, she called before she could talk herself out of it. The phone rang six times. She was about to hang up when a man answered, sounding much younger than expected. "Hello?"

"Hi. My name is Tillie Morrisey, and I'm looking for Eddie Johnson?"

"Why does that name ring a bell?"

"I grew up in Fox Crossing. Maybe that's why?"

"Who are your people?"

"Only my mom, Arlette Morrisey."

A silence. Then: "I'm sorry for your loss. She was a good person."

"Thank you. Is this Eddie?"

"It is. How can I help you?"

"You sound so young," she commented.

He laughed. "Hard work keeps you healthy."

"I guess it does. Listen, I was in town yesterday, and Calla at the quilt shop told me you knew my mom when she first came to town. I'm trying to get some background about her, and I was hoping you might know a little."

"I can try. It's been a long time, you know."

"Right." She paused. "Do you know anything about a child who died?"

"Your sister," he said immediately.

A wash of icy cold poured down her spine. "My sister?"

"Sweetheart, you don't know this story?"

"No. I found a death certificate for her in my mom's stuff. That was the first I'd heard of it."

"Damn. I'm sorry." His voice was gravelly. "Your mom ... I think that the loss messed with her head. She was hard to pin down, and her stories could be different one day to the next, but she didn't change this story about your sister. She died in a fire in California. A forest fire or something."

"But where was I?" Tillie cried.

"I don't know that part. I got the impression you were not there. Born later, maybe."

"Yeah." She peered at the screen. "Can you remember anything about her, then?"

"I'm not sure what you're looking for, kiddo." Now he sounded like an old guy.

"Me, either, honestly. But I feel like there's so much I don't know about my own mom. Like, I don't know if I have family somewhere or—"

"She always said she was from New Hampshire."

"And she said it was my sister who died?"

"Yeah."

She could feel his restlessness, or maybe she was projecting because she didn't know what else to ask. "Okay."

"Tillie, your mom had some problems, for sure, but I can tell you she was a good person. She loved you like you were the sun itself." He paused. "Maybe sometimes it's better to let sleeping dogs lie."

That sentiment again. "Maybe. Can I give you my number? Maybe you could call if you think of anything else?"

"I doubt I will, but you can leave your number."

She hung up, feeling more unsettled than ever. A sister. She had a sister. She'd died, and her mother never told her. Why? And why didn't she even get to have a name of her own?

Restlessly, she scanned her email, but there was nothing from Shiloh. Instead of dealing with anything in her real life that might actually be productive, she returned to the newspaper article about the Valencia firestorm, double-checking that there wasn't a second child listed. She remembered the settlement Jon turned up yesterday and texted him for the link, which he sent back immediately.

Doing ok? he added.

I mean ... ok-ish. You don't have to worry about me. At least until tomorrow. Liam is leaving for England tonight. And then you leave tomorrow, right? This is going to be terrible.

I hate leaving you in this state. Why don't you come with me?

I wish. I'm already behind.

Let's have brunch tomorrow anyway. That place on 12th, Noon and Night? 11 a.m.

Yes. LOVE YOU.

I LOVE YOU MORE.

She copied the names from the settlement into a sketchbook on the table. There were seven, including her mother, and she started going through them one at a time to see if she could find links. She started with Facebook because it was the right generation, and she found three right away, all living in close proximity to the original fire. She DMed them separately. I'm looking for information about a woman who lost her daughter in the Valencia firestorm. If you remember her or the little girl, I'd love to talk to you. P.S., I'm family, not a reporter or anything.

In the meantime, she ran Google searches on the other names. Three more were deceased, which seemed like a lot until she realized they were middle-aged at the time of the fire, thirty-five years ago.

A ding alerted her to a private message on Facebook.

I remember Arlette. We were good friends, and it was horrifying what happened to her daughter. How are you related?

She clicked "Reply" and hesitated, fingers hovering. Whatever she said might spook the woman since Tillie had no background and no idea if her mother had siblings or might have talked about that. Nothing. She needed unvarnished answers, so she opted for: I'm her cousin. My mom died and left her some sentimental things. Do you know where she is?

I don't, sorry to say. It was a pretty bad time for all of us. Most of us scattered.

K. Thanks. One more thing: Do you know if she had another daughter?

Not that I know of.

She sent a heart and a thanks emoji and peered into space. Where the hell was she when all this happened? She was starting to get a really bad feeling about it all.