Page 92 of Everything We Give

“I forgot to ask why she gave the card to James,” I say, regretful.

“I didn’t. I asked when I called her.”

“And?”

“Serendipity.”

“What?”

“Serendipity. Coincidence. She told me she was vacationing with her granddaughter in Hawaii. Hanalei Bay is a popular beach. She recognized James.”

I scrunch up my lips. “I’m not sure I believe that. Do you?”

Ian shrugs; then he points his chin toward the road. Lacy has reached the mailbox.

“Does she have a ride?” I ask.

“She said a friend dropped her off. I assume she’s picking her up.”

“She doesn’t have a purse on her.”

“Or a phone.”

“How does her friend know when to pick her up?”

“Maybe she sent her a telepathic message.”

I look at Ian. He keeps his eyes ahead. His cheek twitches. He leans his head toward me and says, “They probably arranged it ahead of time.”

“You’re probably right,” I agree.

Several cars pass. A truck blares its horn.

“She’s still standing there.”

“So are we.” He removes his arm from me and grips the porch rail with both hands. He straightens his arms and leans his weight into it, using the rail as support. “Do you want to go inside or wait until she gets picked up?”

“We’re waiting. I want to see her get into a car and drive away like a real person. Don’t you? Do you believe she’s psychic? And what about the red-string myth? Do you think she can sense connections like she says?”

A little smile lifts Ian’s mouth like the wings of a butterfly. It looks sad. He seems sad. “You’re just full of questions.”

“Aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “I believe in you. And I believe in us,” he answers, kissing my forehead, and my heart makes a swirly dive.

Because he’s right. The two of us are what matters.

As for Lacy’s psychic abilities, I guess it doesn’t make a difference anymore. She accomplished what she set out to do. She led me to Mexico to find my way to Ian, and she lured Ian to Idaho, which leaves me to wonder. Did she lead him here to find his way to Sarah or back to Stu? Maybe she’s only showing him the road home, back to where it all began. Back to where Ian can make amends.

Ian sighs. He sounds tired, worn down and depleted, when he says, “My mom’s defense attorney had her plead not guilty on account of her DID. He argued that she was mentally ill and shouldn’t be held accountable for her crime.”

I rest my hand over his on the rail. Ian looks at our hands and briefly closes his eyes before continuing.

“All the prosecution had to do was disprove she hadn’t been aware that it was, in fact, premeditated. It didn’t help her case that Jackie never surfaced during my mom’s deposition or trial. There wasn’t much of a paper trail of treatment either. My dad tried for years to get her to regularly see a psychiatrist and go into therapy. He wanted her to do anything that would help her work through whatever it was that damaged her mind. She fought him. She canceled the appointments he’d make or she just wouldn’t show up. She threw away her pills. Then there were the pictures I took.” He swallows roughly. “All those pictures.” He deepens his bend, popping his shoulders, then rights himself and turns to face me. He leans his hip against the rail, crossing his arms, and looks at his shoes. I tuck my hand in my front pocket.

“When I was a kid, I thought the pictures I took of Jackie would prove Sarah wasn’t herself. I don’t know why I kept it up all those years. Reese seems to think I obsess over wanting to help people, that I want to fix their issues, like I did with my mom. I guess I tried to do that with Reese, too. Who knows, maybe I do. And maybe I knew Jackie would get my mom in trouble and my mom would need them one day. So I kept at it, and I hid all of them from Jackie, just like my mom told me to do. I could see the difference in the photos: her facial expressions and her eyes, especially the eyes. They weren’t the same. Surely anyone else could see it, too. It wasn’t until after I graduated from ASU and read the trial’s transcript ... Hell”—he shoves his fingers into his hair—“it could have been sooner and I was in denial, but I realized how stupid I’d been to take those pictures. The prosecuting attorney subpoenaed years’ worth of photos. He used them to prove his point. My mom was unstable and violent. In her defense, she’d suffered years of sexual abuse. Her stepfather, Frank Mullins, broke her. It also helped her case when the cops arrested Frank. They found pictures of underage girls in all stages of undress in his truck cab. His browser history was drowning in a thick soup of child pornography. My mom’s attorney bargained for a reduced sentence when she admitted her intention was to keep Frank from harming other girls. It also helped that Frank didn’t die. The judge and jury sympathized with my mom.”

“Ian, I can’t even ...” My stomach churns. What Sarah had gone through as a child? I think of Caty. I want to rush home and hug her.

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