William parked in the below-ground garage and grabbed my things to carry them upstairs. Edgar hopped out, alert to the newness of his surroundings. We followed William to the elevator and up to his floor.

I felt jittery, my hands trembling. Was it because of the break-in? Or because I was about to be inside William’s apartment for the first time? Probably a combination of both.

He paused in front of his door and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He got his keys out, but didn’t unlock the door. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to bring you here tonight, and I hadn’t thought about…”

“If you’re not comfortable letting us stay here, it’s fine,” I said. “I can always stay with Jessica and Peter.”

“No,” he said, “that’s not it at all. I want you here. I just… wasn’t quite ready.”

“For me to see your apartment?” I asked. “If it’s messy, don’t worry, I won’t judge you.”

“No, it’s clean. I just don’t have people over very often.” He finally unlocked the door. “It will be fine.”

I wasn’t sure if he was reassuring himself, or me. He let me in and Edgar paused to sniff things. I waited near the door while Edgar got used to the unfamiliar scents, and William flicked on a few lights.

His apartment was spacious, and sparsely furnished. He was right, it was clean. He had a couch facing a TV. A big window with closed blinds. A bookshelf stuffed full of books, and rows of movies in a cupboard below the TV. Another corner had a punching bag hanging from the ceiling.

Edgar tugged on the leash, so I walked deeper into the apartment. William stood near the couch, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes were on me, his expression worried. I didn’t understand what had him so nervous. Was it just me being in his apartment? It didn’t seem like he had anything to be embarrassed about.

Then my eyes drifted to the walls. They were covered with paintings on stretched canvas. No frames, and the edges were a bit messy, with brush strokes of paint on the sides. Near the window he had an easel and a shelf of paint supplies.

“Do you paint?” I asked. “You painted all these?”

“Yes.”

I looked more closely at the picture nearest to me. It was an ocean beach, beautifully done. It was so realistic, it seemed familiar. “They’re gorgeous. Were you shy about letting me see them?”

William nodded, and the concern hadn’t left his eyes.

“Why? They’re amazing.” I walked slowly through his apartment, still holding Edgar’s leash. He was happy to sniff his way around. “I had no idea you were so talented.”

I stopped in front of another, realizing it was the view from Rattlesnake Ledge. “Is this new? Did you paint it after our hike?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you hadn’t been there before.”

He didn’t answer, just kept watching me. I looked at the painting next to it. This one depicted a large tree with branches that sprawled over a creek. A swing hung down from a thick limb. He’d painted the ephemeral shape of a little girl sitting on the swing with an open book in her lap. It looked remarkably like the swing my dad had built in the backyard of my childhood home.

I looked at the other paintings. There was a familiarity to all of them. A birthday cake made to look like a castle, only parts of it were tilted—just like the cake my dad had tried to make for my ninth birthday. A room with a cluttered desk, the surface covered with haphazard piles of papers and stacks of books—so much like my dad’s old office. A window with a white puppy peeking out. It reminded me of Edgar the first time I’d seen him.

It was uncanny, like walking into the gallery of my mind.

“William, what are these?” I asked.

“My paintings,” he said, but he winced, like he knew that wasn’t what I’d asked.

“Why did you paint these things?” I asked.

“They’re things I see.”

I looked at the tree again. It looked almost exactly like the tree in my memory. William had mentioned the tree as part of his proof—one of the things he knew about me.

“What do you mean, things you see? How do you see them?”

“They’re my visions.”

I realized then how many paintings he had. Dozens. Some were displayed on the walls. But he also had stacks of painted canvases leaning against each other near his easel.

“What do you mean by visions?” I asked.

“I see these things,” he said. “Just like I paint them. They’re in my mind like memories. But I know they’re not mine.”

“These look like things I know,” I said. “That looks like Edgar when he was a puppy. And that tree… it looks like the one that was in my backyard.”

He nodded.

“Are these about me?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

He nodded again, his brow furrowed with worry.

My heart raced as I stared at his paintings. How was this possible? It was like he could see into my past—like he’d reached into my memories and pulled out the meaningful moments. Painted them.

“Is this how you know things about me?” I asked. “You have visions?”

“Some of it, yes,” he said.

“Why did you paint them?” I asked.

“Because sometimes it feels like too much,” he said. “I can’t think straight. I can’t remember things because all I can see are these visions. I painted them to see if it would help.”

“Did it help?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I took a few more slow steps, Edgar tugging on his leash. “How long have you been having visions about me?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“What?” I asked. Edgar’s ears twitched.

“That’s not as long as you might think,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I gripped Edgar’s leash like I needed something to tether me to the ground. “You need to stop making me ask questions and explain what this is, William.”

“Okay. About ten months ago, maybe a little more, I found myself in a park in Seattle. This,” he said, sweeping his hand to gesture at the paintings, “was all I knew. I knew my name was William Cole. And I knew I was supposed to find Ivy. I could see these things, these places. And others. Like a trail of breadcrumbs that would lead me to you. A puzzle I had to figure out.”

I stared at him, horror-stricken. “You don’t remember anything before that?”

“It’s not that I don’t remember,” he said. “There isn’t anything before that.”

“What do you mean? There has to be something. You didn’t just appear out of thin air.”

“I don’t know how I got to that park,” he said. “But I wasted too much time worrying about it already. It’s not important.”

“What’s more important than that?” I asked. “What happened to you? Were you in an accident? Are you telling me you lost your memory?”

“No, that’s not what I’m telling you.” He came closer. “I know who I am. I’m William Cole. And what’s more important than that is you.”

“William, this is insanity,” I said.

“Is it really that hard to accept?” he asked. “I already told you, I know you. I know so many things about you. I just painted some of them.”

It felt like the air had been sucked from my lungs. He had told me, but hearing it and seeing it were two very different things.

“William, this is overwhelming,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “I was worried it would scare you to see these. But Ivy, you don’t have to be afraid.”

“How can this be real?” I asked. “How can you have no past? How can you have my memories in your head? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand it either. Not all of it, at least. But I don’t think we’re meant to.” He came closer and took my hand. “This is what I do know: These visions led me to you. They were right, and they were true. And I think they’re going to tell me what I need to know to keep you safe. And that’s all I care about.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice small in the space between us. “Why do you care about me so much?”

His face softened, the concern in his eyes melting away, and he squeezed my hand. “Because I know who you are on the inside. I know the woman who lives behind those eyes. And I will do anything to protect you.”

He pulled me to him and I surrendered, collapsing against his chest. His arms around me felt so safe. He kissed the top of my head and rubbed slow circles across my back.

We stood there for a while, silent. I peeked out at the paintings, confused. Conflicted.

“It’s getting late,” he said, finally. “Do you want to get some sleep?”

I nodded. I was exhausted.

“You can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I can sleep on the couch.”

He touched my chin and kissed my lips. “No.”

I smiled and put a hand on his chest. “Thank you.”

William offered to take Edgar outside while I got ready for bed. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, then changed into the pajamas I’d brought—pink plaid shorts and a t-shirt with a moon on it.

When they got back, Edgar settled down on his dog bed in the corner of the bedroom. I felt a little twinge of apprehension at getting into William’s bed. And the truth was, even with Edgar here, I was agitated and jumpy.

William stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Do you need anything?”

I sank down onto the edge of the bed and swallowed hard, trying to stop the sudden flood of tears. I didn’t want to cry. But everything came crashing in, overwhelming me. I put my hand over my mouth and took a shuddering breath.

He was by my side in an instant. As soon as his arms wrapped around me, I lost the ability to hold myself together. All the stress of the day came pouring out, tears spilling down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I said into his shoulder. “I don’t mean to cry all over you.”

He caressed my hair and kissed my head again. Without a word, he got up and turned off the light, then stripped down to a t-shirt and boxer briefs. He pulled back the covers and we both got in his bed. I settled in his arms, my head resting against his chest.

How could he be the source of so much confusion, and yet feel so good? After a few more trembling breaths, my tears stopped. I melted against the warmth of his body, basked in the feel of his muscular arms and strong chest. Regardless of everything that had happened, this was where I wanted to be. With William. In his bed, wrapped in his arms.