THIRTY-ONE

A Yorkshire terrier yipped at Mr. Collins’s feet as he answered the door. He was an older, male replica of his daughter—Chloe, the artist. A college student at the University of Chicago, who had been in the process of going from gallery to gallery in hopes that at least one of them would show her work.

Scooping the barking dog up into his arms, Mr. Collins welcomed them inside, his attention lingering on Autumn longer than Seth. He stared at her painfully. Almost accusatorially. As if he understood the full scope of the situation in a way Ina May Huett and Anna Montgomery hadn’t.

She touched her scar—the feathery one along her jaw. She wiped at it like it was food on her face and found herself wishing she were horribly disfigured. Or paralyzed from the neck down. Something tragic that would take the sting off Mr. Collins’s grief. Because his Chloe—at least—didn’t have to suffer.

But instead she stood inside his house, healthy and whole. Perfectly intact.

“My wife will be downstairs shortly,” he said, his voice gruff. “Kelsey should be home any minute.”

Kelsey was Chloe’s younger sister.

The girls were five years apart, like Autumn and Claire.

Mr. Collins led Seth into the dining room, where he could set up the camera equipment. Autumn slipped off her shoes, taking in the small, tidy townhouse, particularly struck by a framed piece of art hung on one of the walls.

Bright colors. Fluid strokes. The piece drew her closer—near enough to see the small signature in the bottom right corner. Autumn couldn’t look away. Not even when Mr. Collins stepped up beside her.

“Your daughter painted this,” she said.

He nodded.

It was stunning. A work of art reminiscent of the greats—Monet, Cézanne. It oozed with untapped potential. “She was very talented.”

Mr. Collins nodded again.

“Have you ever thought about showing it in a gallery?”

“We would, if an art gallery wanted it.”

An idea that had begun forming ever since Autumn beheld Daniel Montgomery’s wall of business awards took on firmer edges. What if they created their own gallery? A Tragedy on the Tracks gallery. They could show Chloe’s art in the lobby of Redeemer the night of the tribute. Along with Vivian’s photography. And anything else family members wanted to share.

“I remember her,” Autumn said.

He looked at her then, some of his gruffness melting away as the small dog licked frantically at his arm. “You do?”

“I saw her a couple times on the train.”

Mr. Collins turned into a hungry pauper. A father who had only memories left to hold and would do anything for more to add to his collection.

“This one time, one of the passengers wanted to see what was in her portfolio.” He’d been a smarmy-looking man, much too old to flirt with a girl Chloe’s age, but Autumn left that part out. “He kept raving about her work. He kept going on and on about it, until Chloe jokingly said that he was welcome to buy it.”

Mr. Collins waited, like there should be something more. But that was it. She didn’t have anything else to give. She had handed him a pebble, when he’d been hoping for a diamond.

The front door swung open.

In walked Kelsey, taking Autumn’s breath away.

Seventeen. Lover of music. A girl who dreamed of attending Juilliard and had played a heartrending solo during the funeral. And also, Chloe’s doppelgänger. She looked so much like her sister, they could have been identical twins.

“Sorry I’m late.” She held a violin case, and her cheeks were rosy, as though she’d just been running. “I missed the train and had to wait for the next one.”

The train.

Kelsey Collins rode the train.

She set her violin on the floor beside the welcome mat and took the wiggling, overexcited dog from her father’s hands. “Where’s Mom?”

“I’ll go get her,” Mr. Collins said.

He went upstairs, leaving Kelsey and Autumn alone.

Kelsey let the dog give her several kisses on the lips.

Autumn watched in fascination, trying to wrap her mind around Kelsey—a clone of Chloe—riding the train back and forth from violin lessons. “How do you do it?”

“Excuse me?”

Autumn inched closer, hungry for an answer. So much so, her heart beat faster inside her chest. If she saw this girl on the L, she would most definitely think she was seeing a ghost. She would think it was Chloe, back from the dead, tempting fate. “How do you ride the train?”

Kelsey looked at her oddly and set the dog on the floor. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“But how? After what happened, how?”

“I couldn’t at first,” Kelsey said slowly, taking a small step back, away from Autumn’s intensity. “But I kept trying. And then one day…I don’t know. I was able to do it.”

Autumn stared, unblinking.

Until Mr. Collins returned. He was pale, and his wife wasn’t with him. “She said we can go ahead without her. She’s not feeling very well tonight.”

Autumn wasn’t fooled.

It was obvious from the look Mr. Collins and Kelsey exchanged.

Mrs. Collins wasn’t unwell. She was broken, irrevocably fractured. And something as paltry as a tribute was not going to fix it.

A week and a half into her new job and Autumn was beginning to live two very distinct lives. The one after work, wherein she met with the objects of her obsession. Visiting homes. Interviewing family members. Pouring over her notes. Bringing ghosts back to life. Somehow this world was more real to her than the other life she lived during the day at Redeemer.

There she behaved like a well-adjusted member of society. Someone who went to work and accomplished tasks and interacted with people like a normal person. She was starting to get a handle on the names of her coworkers, the church’s social media accounts, and currently this—her first big project.

One that included Paul Elliott.

A man who existed in both of these lives.

She hadn’t seen him in almost a week. It was disquieting now, sitting in a small conference room with him and Mitch, all professional as they went over plans for the campaign. As if their odd night in the rain never happened.

It felt a little like they were secret friends. But they weren’t really friends—secret or otherwise. They were…acquaintances. Strange acquaintances who had shared a moment. One Autumn replayed often, but especially now. Outwardly, she familiarized herself with the campaign’s purposes. Inwardly, she kept second-guessing the information she had divulged about her mother. Maybe that was it. She had shared something intimate, and she felt exposed.

After addressing the goals for the campaign, they went over the ways in which Paul could leverage his platform—which had been steadily growing, thanks to the success of his book—in order to better accomplish those goals. They drew up a list of the things he had time for and the things he didn’t, as well as action points for the various churches involved.

When they were finished, Mitch expressed his excitement and congratulated Autumn on a job well done, then shook Paul’s hand and excused himself for another meeting just as a text came through on Autumn’s phone. It was from Seth. He wanted an address for tonight’s interview—their third one this week.

“Reese has been asking about you,” Paul said.

Autumn looked up from her phone. “She has?”

“She wants to know when she can help again.”

“Oh. If she’s available, I’d love her help next Wednesday.” They were scheduled to meet with Mary Welling, a divorced mother of two who lost her father in the explosion. Her oldest daughter was Tate’s age.

“That should work,” he said.

“We should get yours rescheduled too.”

Something dark clouded his expression. “Yeah. I’ll have to check my calendar.”

Her phone dinged again.

She turned it to silent and slipped it inside her purse, unsure what to say next. “Do you know what you’re going to get your mom for her birthday yet?”

Paul groaned.

It was a friendly sound—one that broke apart their stilted decorum and placed them back on the basketball court.

“Not a clue,” he said.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

He cocked his head. “Why?”

“Because I have an idea. I think your mom will love it.”