Page 63 of Memories of the Lost

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 clothedembrace, 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 directlyforthe show, but she couldn’t resist doing just alittlework 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 ablock 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 wordsphone 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?”