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“Whatever, Doc. I kind of like this game, seeing how well my twin knows me. How about this. Have I ever gone skydiving?”

“Twenty-six times,” he answers, still smiling.

“Most embarrassing moment?”

He frowns, thinking, then his eyes clear. “You got your period in the eighth grade in the middle of class”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“in white pants.”

“Son of a bitch!” I shriek. “I’m committing twin-icide the second I see that dickhead.”

His smile softens. “Why do you think Jameson wanted me to know so much about you?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. He trusts you, so I should trust you.”

“Do you think you can?”

I meet his calm, assessing gaze. “Maybe. If you tell me a secret.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “What kind of secret?”

“Your biggest one.”

His lips curve, though not in humor. “I don’t think so, but I’ll tell you something personal. How’s that?”

“I’ll tell you after I hear it.”

He concedes with a nod. “When I was thirteen, my older brother committed suicide. I didn’t put the pieces together until college, but now I know he suffered from untreated bipolar disorder.”

No pleasure this time, either.

At my silence, he continues, “I knew there was something wrong with him, but my mother didn’t believe in mental illness. She believed in prayer. I’ll always regret not listening to my instincts, not pushing harder for him to see a doctor.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, which strikes me as a small miracle. How does he not hate her? If it were Jameson we were talking about, no matter how much time had passed, I’d still be postal.

“That’s why you went into this field?”

He nods. “His name was Vincent. Vince.”

There is, of course, a part of me that wants to pry further. To see how far he’ll let me open him up, how deep he’ll let me peer inside.

I’m not a changed woman after eight days in treatment. The itch for danger will come back—it always does—but right now, I’m content.

I take a deep breath. “Do you want me to tell you about the night my mother died?”

“Please.”

So I do.

9

MEMORY LANE

DAY 9

Ensconced in the playroom with a mountain of Legos, Jameson and I listen to our parents in the next room.

“Please, Harrison, you know I’m phobic about water. Will you take him?”

“We’ve talked about this,” replies my father sternly. “He needs to learn to swim. Jameson and Mia started lessons when they were one. I don’t know why it’s so different with Phillip.”