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I want to ask her if that’s true, and to what extent would he lie. “It’s beautiful outside. I was thinking maybe we could sit in the garden and read.”

“What garden? You mean the cemetery of vines and shrubbery in the yard?”

“Yes. Unless you’re up for a game of basketball, or something.”

Her face scrunches to a frown. “Reading, it is.”

I wheel her down to the first level, and out into the ruins, as I call them. The sun is bright today, but the news of Nell somehow dulls its warmth. Taking a seat on a stone bench half covered in bird crap, I flip the book open to where we last left off, the picture of young Lucian and his friend acting as the bookmark.

“I think I’d prefer to hear your story, instead, today.”

Peeling my attention from the new chapter, I frown. “Mine?”

“Yes. Have you always lived on the island?”

I don’t know why I hesitate to answer her at first. “No. My mother and I moved around a lot when I was little. Every month, it felt like.”

“Was she in the military? Or business? Engineers move around quite a bit, don’t they?”

Engineer. The only thing my mother managed to engineer was a shit life for both of us. “She was neither of those.”

“Well, what did she do to keep moving you around so much?”

“Drugs. She was a junkie, and … we ran quite a bit.”

The sidelong glance she shoots back at me is overflowing with judgement, but I don’t care. Hiding my past has become an exhausting exercise as of late. “That doesn’t sound like a healthy environment for a young girl.”

“Not at all.”

“And your father?”

“He died before I had the chance to meet him.”

“So, how did you manage to avoid following your mother footsteps in life?”

“My Aunt Midge raised me from the time I was ten.”

“It took ten years for your mother to decide she couldn’t manage? Or did something precipitate the decision.”

In the pause that follows her question, a flickering image flashes through my head.

A child holding a glowing heart. Darkness all around. But the child’s face practically glows. It’s sad eyes. Gentle hands. A red heart. Deep breaths. Red. Everywhere, it’s red.

I blink out of the thoughts, the book in my lap coming back into focus.

“Well?” The expectant tone in Laura’s voice carries an air of annoyance. “Why ten years?”

“I don’t know. I guess she just gave up.”

“That’s not how mothers operate, darling. My guess is, you’ll never know. Women do what they have to do, sometimes. Even at the risk of unimaginable pain.”

There’s a very lucid texture to her voice, and I have to look away from her eyes, which seem to be searching me for something, though I can’t say what.

“Is that why you and Lucian don’t communicate much?” It’s a tricky question with Laura, given the way she obviously feels about her son.

Instead, she sneers at my question, staring off toward the yard. “He resents me. He felt I forced him into marriage.” Rolling her shoulders back, she lowers her gaze toward her hands resting in her lap. “As if I had a choice.”

“You loved Amelia, though. Didn’t you?”