Chapter 50
I’ve lost my mind.
I’m talking to my dead mother—or at least the back of her precariously balanced head—as though she’s a colleague, as though she’s alive. Worse than that, I’m asking my dead mother for advice. Any comfort I’ve found in my flimsy explanations disappears in an instant.
I should call Maeve. Tell her what’s happening and get her professional advice. She did gently offer her services after her birthday dinner, “at the best-friend rate,” which I know means free of charge.
But I don’t call Maeve, because I don’t know where to start.
I also don’t call Kat, because she’ll tell Nick (why does she have to tell him everything?), who will call Wyatt.
Something is seriously wrong with this painting. Possibly with Charlotte Leclerc herself, when she painted it. Circling the problem brings no clarity. I can’t tease out answers to my fear-soaked questions, because there aren’t any. This defies logic.
“A portal,” my mother said.
A portal…for what?
“For you, of course.”
What the hell does that mean?