Page 39 of Memories of the Lost

“Yes. I’ve already called a therapist, and he’ll see me this afternoon.”

“Good.”

“Just ... don’t block me, Tillie. I can’t stand it.”

For a moment, she stared up at the rectangular windows showing her a cloudy sky. “Okay, but if you text me, I’m going to block you again.”

“Fair.”

“And if you show up on my doorstep again, I will get a restraining order.”

“What? That’s a little extreme.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m done with this.”

“Fine.” He was much less conciliatory. “I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

He paused. “I don’t know. Just—”

“No more talking. We’re done.” She paused. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She hung up.

A wild energy swelled through her body, anxiety and anger and weariness with the situation. She threw the phone on the couch and, fueled by too much emotional energy, stomped toward the pile of papers by the front door, still lying where it fell when Liam brought it in. She started scraping them up, dumping them back into the box. A flash of Liam’s mouth came to her, his hands on her body as they left the mess yesterday and twined themselves together. Her skin rippled. If she hadn’t let Jared go when she had, this whole thing would not have been possible. What a relief!

Live for today,she thought, and scraped the last few papers into a stack. One had sailed all the way over to the wall, and she walked over to pick it up, turning it over to organize it with the others.

The words on the paper penetrated her emotional storm. A chill wound through her body.

It was a death certificate, dated March 9, 1989. For Matilda Magdalene Morrisey, age three.

Matilda.Tillie.

Her skin rippled, cold then very hot, and a buzzing filled her ears.

This death certificate was forher.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

New York City

Tillie stared at the death certificate in blank horror, then spread her hands out in front of her, heart racing. Wildly, she thought ofThe Sixth Sense. Maybe she was dead and just didn’t know it?

Don’t be an idiot.

She was very much alive, sitting on the battered wooden planks of her loft floor. The clouds of earlier had cleared, and bars of sunlight fell on her thighs. A scent of coffee mixed with gesso perfumed the air.

She was alive.

And yet, this death certificate had her exact name: Matilda Magdalene Morrisey. Not exactlyJane Smith.

Who was she? And if it wasn’t her, then who was this Tillie?

Anxiety invaded her body, making her heart race, blurring the edges of her vision. She leaped to her feet to pace, reminding herself to breathe in, breathe out.

In, out.