To be filled with emptiness was something of an oxymoron, but one I’d never felt so keenly as I did now. I left William in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, his heart crushed. In breaking his, I’d torn apart my own. I felt hollow, and yet consumed with guilt. Empty, but filled with confusion and sadness.

I went back to Jessica and Peter’s, but I didn’t tell them what had happened. I couldn’t. Instead, I took Edgar for a long walk, hoping the fresh air would help clear my head.

My conversation with the doctor weighed heavily on me. I didn’t want to believe he was right—that I was a barrier to William getting better. I could no longer imagine my life without him. I’d lost my mother when I was too young to know her. Lost a man I’d thought I might marry when he’d decided I wasn’t worth waiting for. Lost my father, the only family I’d ever had.

Now I’d lost William. The man who’d brought me back to life.

When I got back to their house, my nose was cold from the night air. And I wasn’t any closer to finding answers, my mind as muddled as ever.

The next morning, I took Edgar out, then came back in and sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee. Jessica and Peter had already left for work. I didn’t know what would happen with my job, but it was hard to care. I had too much on my mind. And worst-case scenario, it wasn’t like I needed the money. I loved what I did, but if I got fired, at least my inheritance afforded more than enough resources to live on.

I couldn’t stop thinking about William’s paintings. If the doctor was right, and it was all a delusion, how had he seen those things to paint them? How had he known?

Was he a con-artist, like Jessica had suggested? Had he spent time researching me, visiting places I’d been, taking pictures? Had he concocted an elaborate ruse to draw me in and seduce me? It seemed like an enormous amount of effort to undertake, even for ten million dollars.

No matter how I looked at it, the paintings didn’t make sense. If he was crazy, and it was all a delusion, how had he painted them? Even the doctor had glossed over that part. He hadn’t really responded when I’d told him the paintings were real.

But if he was conning me, why had he taken such elaborate measures? Was money enough motive? Was there something else fueling such intricate lies?

His paintings were the key. They were the anomaly—the part of this puzzle that didn’t fit. So maybe we were trying to build the wrong picture. But if we were, I had no idea what the real puzzle was supposed to look like.

“There might be a way to find out,” I said to Edgar. His ears swiveled, and he blinked his eyes open. “Or at least give me a clue. You want to go for a ride in the car?”

He sprang to his feet, looking spry for an old man. I grabbed a few things and we headed out to my car.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, we arrived at our destination and I parked on the street. The house still looked so familiar—so much like it had when Dad and I had lived here. Sage green siding with white trim and a white door. A long driveway lined with dark green shrubs.

I took a deep breath. If William had researched me, this was one of the places he would have come. He’d painted the tree in the backyard of this house—my childhood home.

“Stay here for a little bit, okay, buddy?”

Edgar settled down on the backseat, his head resting on his front legs.

“Such a good boy.”

I gave him a Nylabone to gnaw on, cracked the windows so he’d have enough air, and went to the front door of the house I’d grown up in.

Another deep breath, and I knocked.

A few seconds later, the door opened. An older woman with graying hair answered. She was dressed in jeans and an oversize t-shirt.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Hi,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward. “I’m sorry to bother you. This might seem strange, but I used to live here.”

Her smile put me at ease. “Well, I’ll be. I remember you. You must be Dr. Nichols’ daughter. You were younger the last time I saw you.”

“You knew my dad?”

“He was an acquaintance,” she said. “We bought the house from him. That must have been what, fifteen years ago?”

“Yes, about that,” I said. “You’ve lived here that long?”

“We have,” she said. “How is your father?”

“Oh, he passed away last year.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. “I didn’t realize.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I suppose you’re here for the memories?” She opened the door wider. “Come on in. I bet it’s different from when you lived here, but you’re welcome to look around.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to intrude too much. I thought maybe I’d just look around outside. But I didn’t want to trespass, so I figured I’d ask.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Come in. I don’t mind a bit.”

“Thank you.”

I stepped through the door and looked around. It did look different, but much of it was still familiar. The flow of the rooms. The way the kitchen had a pass-through into the dining area. The back door leading into the yard.

“I’m Alyssa,” she said. “Alyssa Redmond.”

“Ivy Nichols,” I said.

“Can I show you around?”

“Sure, that would be great.”

I followed Alyssa through the house. She opened bedroom doors and I peeked inside. My old bedroom was now a craft and sewing room, with a large work table and bins and shelves along the walls. I seemed to remember it had once been carpeted, but it now had hardwood floors. The kitchen had been updated, with new countertops and appliances. The room my dad had used for his study was their guest room—instead of being crammed with books, it had a bed with a patchwork quilt.

“This is so nice of you,” I said as she led me back into the main living area. “I appreciate it so much.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said.

“Can I ask you what might be an odd question?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Has anyone ever come by asking about me or my father? Particularly in the last year or so?”

She shook her head slowly, as if she was thinking. “No, I don’t think anyone has ever come here asking about him, or you. That sounds worrisome. Who might it have been?”

“No one you need to be concerned about,” I said. Had William been here? Maybe he hadn’t spoken to the owners. It was only the tree he’d painted. He wouldn’t have had to come inside to have seen that. “Do you mind if I look around outside?”

“Be my guest,” she said.

Alyssa followed me outside. The familiarity of the back property was more poignant—so similar to what I remembered. The freshly clipped grass. The concrete patio. The creek at the edge of the property. But one thing was strikingly missing.

“What happened to the tree?” I walked toward a large stump next to the creek. “This tree used to be huge. The branches hung over the creek, and my dad built a swing.”

“Oh, we had to take that tree down years ago,” she said. “In fact, I think it was right after we moved in. I remember it well because I was so disappointed. That tree was one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house. But it had a disease of some kind. Rotting from the inside. It was so big, we didn’t want to risk it falling, or one of our kids climbing in it and a limb breaking. So we had it cut down.”

“You cut it down fifteen years ago?”

She nodded. “We did. I’m still a bit sad when I think about it.”

I stared at the stump. The top was weathered smooth, the wood faded and old. If they’d cut this tree down fifteen years ago, there was no way William could have seen it. The tree wasn’t here.

Oh my god.

“Do you mind if I take a picture of this?” I gestured toward the stump.

“Not at all.”

I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures, then texted one to Jessica.

“Thank you so much for your time, Alyssa,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

“That’s so nice of you to offer, but I’m afraid I can’t,” I said. “I have to get home. But thank you again.”

My mind was racing as I said my goodbyes and went around the front to my car. Jessica had already texted back with a series of question marks. I clipped on Edgar’s leash and let him out of the car, then called her.

“Hello? Ivy, why did you send me a picture of a tree stump?”

“That’s the tree,” I said. “From my childhood home. The one with the swing.”

“I’m not following.”

“The tree William painted,” I said. “He couldn’t have seen it in person, Jessica. It was cut down fifteen years ago.”

“What are you saying?”

“That he didn’t come here,” I said. “He couldn’t have seen that tree. And I know I don’t have any photos of it. Not a single one.”

“Well, maybe he just painted a tree with a swing,” she said. “How do you know it’s that specific tree?”

“It is, Jess,” I said. “Every detail is the same, just like I remember it. He even painted me sitting on the swing reading a book.”

“So, okay, that means what?” she asked. “He didn’t research you? He’s not lying?”

“It means he’s not lying, and he’s not crazy,” I said. “At least, not the kind of crazy they think he is.”

“Then how did he know what the tree looked like?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” I was practically laughing. “Oh my god, I’m right back where I started. I have no explanation. But he was right all along.”

“Right about what?”

“Saving me,” I said. A tear broke free from the corner of my eye. “He was right about saving me. I just hope I’m not too late to return the favor.”