Page 62 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

When she awakened days later, she cried out for her mother. Jill was there, trying to soothe her, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. “I need to talk to her,” she cried. “Find her!”

Jill broke the news that Rachel had died instantly.

“No!” Mariah protested. “She was with me, the whole time!”

Jill wept at that. “I’m sure she was, honey, but her physical body was somewhere else.”

Even now, Mariah could remember her mom at her side in that ER, holding her hand, looking into her eyes. “Hang on. You can do it,” she’d said, her clear eyes very direct, like lasers.

But of course, she had not been there. Mariah had actually known that on some level. Hadn’t she seen her mother fall?

In her current state of slight confusion and a growing sense of health—despite the setbacks—the whole thing suddenly struck her as completely bizarre. That they’d gone shopping for avocados and tomatoes and had in fact been discussing the ways tochoosean avocado—the give of the skin, the marker of the stem end—when some random person just came into the produce aisle and shot them like they were targets in a video game. Like, for no reason. Just because he could.

In her Paris hotel room, she limped to the window, rubbing her thigh more out of habit than pain. Across the way, she could see a bank of apartments and a tricycle on the balcony. People’s voices reached her, speaking not French, but some other language she didn’t know.

Had her mom really been there in the ER, or had it been a hallucination? “Mom,” Mariah said aloud now, “I’d like a sign. Are you out there? Or is it just a big dark space on the other side?”

That was why she kept wanting to talk to Tyler Henry, the psychic. Or the seat belt guy. They’d channel some message from Rachel, some proof that she wasn’t just gone forever, but waiting in some other dimension.

“Stop it,” she said, and shook her shoulders vigorously. She wasn’t that person, some airy-fairy girlie girl who believed in crystals and spells and gods or heaven or past lives. She was theoppositeof that.

Or she had been. Stripping off her clothes, she headed for the shower. It wasn’t until she stepped into the tiny stall that she realized she was mulling over the words of the medium in Brick Lane:The bookstore will give you some help.

What did the bookstore lead to? What had her mother hidden all these years? What were all these clues adding up to? What had Rachel been trying to do?

Maybe they’d find some answers here. After a time, she fell back to sleep, and woke up to change into fresh jeans and a T-shirt from the Sochi Olympics. Today, they’d stop into Angelina. That was an easy stop, a place Rachel and Mariah had visited often when Mariah was small. She thought about the drinking chocolate and the little boxes oftreats, and suddenly couldn’t wait. The sun was out, she was young, and they were in Paris on a quest.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt not only alive but also glad to be. What came next? She had no idea.

But today, she would drink chocolate at Angelina.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next morning, the plan was to explore the city and visit the two cafés on their list—Angelina and Café Farroukh.

Veronica had caught up with email and messages the night before. Her landlord had sent a reminder about the rent. If she lost the apartment, what would happen to her stuff?

She finally texted Jenna.I need an urgent favor. Can you go pick up my car in Denver and bring it to my apartment?

Denver? I really can’t, Mom! That will take hours!

I know. I hate to ask, but I’m desperate.

She paused, not wanting to put Spence in a bad light but also not wanting to outright lie. Then:Because of a big mess of things, I’m in danger of getting evicted. If I get the car there, it might help hold it until I get back.

Wow. Evicted? How is that even possible?

It’s a long story. Can you please help me? It doesn’t have to be today.

Mom, I really can’t. Have zero hours at the moment. Trying to get my own rent. Ask Ben.

Veronica scowled at the phone. After all that she’d done for her daughter, she couldn’t do a favor for her in return.It’s pretty critical, sweet. Can you squeeze out a couple of hours?

Mom! You know it will take longer than that, and I’m swamped! I can’t!

Her fingers hovered over the keypad. Stung, she was reluctant to ask Ben or Tim—but why? They were as capable as Jenna. But they didn’t have the same relationship. A little sense of discomfort ran through her heart. She didn’t really trust the boys to do the same job her daughter would do.

As she debated on how to respond, she suddenly thought of her friend Amber. She needed an apartment and had been having a hard time finding one in Boulder country.