Then his quiet voice, as he bent to fix a scraped knee or whisper in my ear after a bad dream. I had vague images of Pamela as a warm and loving mother. But Todd? The moment I heard him speak, those memories flooded back, sharp and clear, and the tears started. They didn’t begin as prickles or even drops. I felt them streaming down my face, soaking my collar, my cheeks wet, my skin red-hot.

“Can you turn around, Olivia?”

He didn’t call me Eden. He didn’t stumble on my adopted name, as Pamela did. He was being careful, so very careful.

I took a slow step back and bumped the stool.

“There. Now sit down.”

The woman sitting next to me stopped complaining about the neighbors and stared at me, her face scrunched up like I was covered in plague boils.

“Ignore her,” Todd said, his voice sharper, and he must have glared at the woman, because she turned away quickly. “Ignore everyone else.”

I felt myself nodding and settled onto the stool.

I should turn around.

I can’t.

This is stupid. I’m making a fool of myself.

“It’s okay.”

I nodded again.

“You went to Yale, right?”

The question threw me, and I hesitated before saying, “Yes.”

“Okay, so tell me what you studied.”

I paused again. Of all the things he could ask . . .

“Olivia, I’m not going to talk about the past or what I remember about you or ask what you remember about me. I know how tough this is, so I just want you to talk to me. Tell me something about yourself, about your life.”

“I—I have questions.”

His voice softened. “I know. You can ask me anything you want, but you don’t need to.”

“I should. I’m supposed to . . .”

I’m supposed to be interrogating you. I came for answers that Pamela won’t give, but I don’t want to do that. Not now. Not yet.

“You can come back,” he said. “Anytime you want, you can come back, and I will answer everything I can.”

I started to turn, fists clenched at my sides. And I froze again, heart pounding, breath coming short, a panic attack threatening.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice so low it was barely audible through the speaker. “This is fine. I’m just glad you came.”

I nodded, tears welling again. Then I turned and looked at him. The first thing I thought was, He looks exactly like I remember. He didn’t, of course. It’d been twenty-two years. The shoulder-length blond hair had been cut, though it was still not short. His face had shallow creases and lines. He seemed smaller than I’d expected, though I chalked that up to a child’s perspective. He was maybe five-ten, lean and wiry. His eyes, though? They were exactly what I remembered: green eyes, the mirror image of mine.

Even as I catalogued the differences, those weren’t really what I was looking for. I was assessing, worrying even. He looks healthy. Fit. No older than I would have expected—maybe even younger. Calm, too. Grounded. All that came with a rush of relief, that prison hadn’t turned him into a wreck of a man or a hardened convict. Then came the guilt, because I hadn’t worried about any of that with Pamela.

I took a deep breath. “I majored in Victorian lit. My, um, master’s thesis was on Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said with a smile. “What’s your favorite story?”

I could name The Hound of the Baskervilles and swing this conversation exactly where it was supposed to go. What do you know about the hounds? I felt the words on my lips, rolled them around, but just couldn’t get them out. I didn’t want that. Not yet.

“‘Silver Blaze,’” I said. “It’s one of his later ones.”

“About the racehorse.”

I nodded, and as I did, a memory sparked, something about a pony ride, me begging for one at a fair, Pamela saying no, I wasn’t old enough yet, Todd saying he’d hold on to me, and the two of us running off with Pamela sighing in the background.

He could mention that. You always loved horses. Pamela would have. That was how we talked: I’d say something and she’d tie it back to her memories of me. It was a natural inclination, but uncomfortable, that constant reminder, her need to strengthen our connection.

“There was also a dog in ‘Silver Blaze,’” Todd said. “The curious incident of the dog in nighttime, right? It’s been years since I read any of the Holmes stories. I’ll have to check them out again. The ones I remember best are . . .”

—

And so it continued. We talked, not about our shared past but finding fresh connections. Todd didn’t frantically search them out, like on an awkward first date—You like cream in your coffee? So do I!—but allowed them to rise in natural conversation. We didn’t get beyond books, and not even far beyond Sherlock Holmes, before our time ended.

When I got up to leave, he sat very still, then asked, “So, do I pass?” He smiled, and that smile, that crooked smile that lit up his eyes, was so exactly what I remembered that the dam burst and the tears streamed down.

The smile vanished and he leaned forward, hands on the Plexiglas. “It’s okay, Olivia,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”

I swiped hard at the tears. “Sorry. This isn’t . . .” I managed a wry smile. “Not really my style.”

“I know.”

He could have dredged up a memory there. You were never a crier or You always hated to cry. Todd only said, “I know.” And then, “I’m sorry.”