One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(85)

“Nurse Gale said you were gone, doing some . . . I don’t get what she said. Something about a . . . soul? You lost it? And you needed to go find it?” Eric ends that with a quizzical frown.

Soul searching. I chuckle. “Yes. I was.”

“Here.” Derek pushes forward a stack of papers with drawings on them. “She told us to help you think of all the things you could be when you grow up.”

“I told her you wanted to be a doctor,” Eric interjects with an eye roll. “But she thought it’d be good to give you backup ideas.”

Looking at each of them in turn, at their eager little faces, I begin flipping through each sheet, evaluating all of my options.

And I’m laughing harder than I’ve laughed in a long time.



I step out of the cab in front of a large white Victorian house in Newark at exactly two p.m. By the sign out front, it appears to be a nursing home of sorts. A fairly nice one at that, I note as I enter through the front door and into a modest but charming foyer with dark mahogany floors, pastel striped wallpaper, and a floral arrangement sitting on a side table. Across from me is an unattended front desk with a notice directing visitors to a registration book. I sigh as I glance around, looking for a clue as to what I’m supposed to do next. Dr. Stayner gave me no further instruction than to go to this address. Normally he’s quite explicit with his demands.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, about to text him for guidance, when a young blond woman in baby blue nurse scrubs strolls by.

With a smile in greeting, she says, “You must be Livie.”

I nod.

“He’s waiting for you in room 305. Stairs are around the corner, to your left. Third floor and follow the signs.”

“Thanks.” So Dr. Stayner is here. Why am I not surprised? I open my mouth to ask the nurse what she knows about room 305, but she’s gone before I can utter a word.

I follow her directions, taking the staircase to the third floor, the lingering scent of industrial-grade cleaner trailing the entire way. I can’t help but notice the eerie quiet as I climb. It only amplifies the creaking steps. Aside from an occasional cough, I hear nothing. I see nothing. It’s as if the place is empty. My gut tells me it’s far from it.

Following the room numbers on the doors, I watch the progression until I reach my destination. The door is propped open. Okay, Dr. Stayner. What do you have for me now? With a deep inhale, I step hesitantly around the corner, expecting to find my graying psychiatrist.

A short, narrow hallway leads into a room that I can’t see fully from the doorway. All I can see is the corner ahead and a dark-haired, tanned, beautiful man hunched over in a chair—his elbows on his knees, his hands folded and pressed to his mouth as if he’s waiting with trepidation.

My breath hitches.

Ashton is on his feet immediately. His lips part as he stares at me, as if he wants to speak but doesn’t know where to begin. “Livie,” he finally manages, and then clears his throat. He’s never called me Livie before. Never. I don’t know how that makes me feel.

I’m too shocked to respond. I hadn’t expected to see him today. I hadn’t prepared myself.

I watch with wide eyes as Ashton takes five quick strides over and seizes my hand, his worried brown eyes locked on mine, a slight tremble in his grip. “Please don’t run,” he whispers, adding more quietly, more gruffly, “and please don’t hate me.”

That snaps me out of my initial shock but it sends me into another one. Did he honestly think I’d run from him the second I saw him? And how on earth could Ashton ever think that I’d hate him?

Whatever is going on, Ashton clearly doesn’t comprehend the depth of my feeling for him. Yes, I left two weeks ago. It was something I had to do. For me. But I’m here now and I don’t ever want to run or walk or anything away from Ashton again.

I just pray to God that I won’t have to.

What the hell is that damn psychiatrist of mine up to now?

Stepping backward, Ashton silently leads me farther into the room until I can see the entire space. It’s quaint, simple—with pale yellow paper adorning the walls, crown molding lining the ceiling, and several vine plants suspended before a bay window, soaking up the mid-afternoon sunshine. All of those details vanish, though, as my eyes land on the woman lying in the hospital bed.

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a faintly wrinkled face that surely would have been described as beautiful at one time, especially with those full lips. Lips as full as Ashton’s.

And it all just . . . clicks.

“This is your mother,” I whisper. It’s not a question because I know the answer with certainty. I just don’t know the mountain of “whys” behind it.

Ashton’s hand never slips from mine, his grip never weakens. “Yes.”

“She’s not dead.”

“No, she’s not.” There’s a long pause. “But she is gone.”

I appraise Ashton’s solemn expression for a moment before turning back to the woman. I don’t mean to stare, but I do anyway.

Her eyes flicker from my face to Ashton’s. “Who . . .” she begins to say, and I can tell she’s struggling to form her words, her mouth working the shapes but unable to make the sounds come out. And in her eyes . . . I see nothing but confusion.

“It’s Ashton, Mom. This is Livie. I told you about her. We call her Irish.”