CHAPTER THIRTY

THE MEMORY OF Evie sitting cross-legged upon the green-and-yellow striped blanket became untethered. The moment blurred with the diner and my office, the hidden passageway. Evie laughed, screamed, cried. Surprise. You put your work ahead of your daughter, again.

The hallway walls dripped and ran with memory, tattered and frayed. I slammed my shoulder into something, a door or a doorjamb. Marisol’s smell intensified. Hands caught beneath my arms, wrapping around my chest from behind. “Evie?” I suggest you employ your overactive mind in figuring out the difference between dedicating your work and your heart.

She left out the diner door, but the arms gripping me tightened. “Evie, wait. I’m sorry.” Already up to my waist, the current rose. Slipping beneath the cascade, my conscious grip gave way to resurface an unknown distance downstream.