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better than to hear the story of someone’s life. It’s so much more interesting than fiction.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that, at least where my life is concerned,” I said, taking a spoonful of the caramelly soup. “My story is fairly ordinary.” I winced as I thought about Jeremy.
    “Oh, I doubt that,” she said, and looked at me with expectation in her eyes. “As in any good story, let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?”
    “In Minneapolis,” I said. Long-forgotten memories flooded back as I told Amaris Sinclair about growing up in a split-level house three doors down from a creek that ran through the suburban neighborhood where I lived until I left for college. I told her of playing outside during the endless summers of childhood with a gaggle of friends who had long since faded from view, of catching crayfish in the creek and listening to the frogs sing at night. It seemed so old-fashioned and simple in comparison to the way my life had evolved.
    “Lovely! And your parents? What did they do?”
    “My mom was a secretary and my dad was in sales,” I said, the words catching at the back of my throat as my parents’ faces floated through my mind.
    “They’re both gone now, I understand.” She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers.
    “Yes,” I said, dabbing at my eyes with my napkin. “It’s been more than fifteen years already. Mom was killed in a car accidenton the way to work, and Dad died just after her funeral. Everyone said it was a broken heart.”
    She squeezed my hand. “That thing people say about time healing all wounds? Rubbish. Complete and utter rubbish.”
    This brought a smile to my lips. “You learn to live with it, but the pain never goes away.”
    “You had finished college by that time, yes?”
    I nodded. “I was in Europe—a graduation gift from my parents. I rushed home and…” I sighed, not really knowing how to continue.
    “That’s when you wrote your novel,” she prompted.
    “I didn’t know what else to do.” I gave a halfhearted shrug.
    She cleared her throat. “Now that Adrian has gone, we might as well be honest with each other,” she said. “I know he has hired you as a companion for me. It’s a little game we play. He hires them; I drive them off. Since we mentioned your novel, I thought I’d simply let you know that he is trying to do this under the guise that you are a writer in need of mentoring. I suspect this isn’t quite the case. Am I correct?”
    Her candor caught me off guard. Was I about to be ejected from this house like so many other “companions” before me? I grasped for the right words.
    “Both are true,” I said, thinking quickly. “Adrian—Mr. Sinclair—wants to make sure you are well cared for during his absences. After knowing you for just a few hours, I can see you don’t need a companion. But I can also see a son who wants to do all he can for his mother.”
    Mrs. Sinclair smiled. “Adrian is a good boy.”
    “I’ve been a fan of yours for years, and frankly, that’s the main reason I accepted his offer,” I continued. I didn’t bring up anything about my recent life and my desire to drop out of sight. I didn’t know how much she knew about that, and I figured the less, the better.
    “Thank you, my dear.”
    She took another spoonful of soup and a silence fell between us. I waited until she spoke again.
    “You see, Julia, just as my son had ulterior motives for bringing you here, I must confess to harboring ulterior motives of my own for agreeing to the situation, and agreeing willingly.” Her green eyes danced.
    A trickle of fear crept up my spine. Her comment seemed to tint my current state of affairs in very dark hues. It occurred to me that I was sitting across the table from a famous horror novelist—a woman whose character I really didn’t know at all.
    The look on my face must’ve betrayed what I was thinking, because Amaris Sinclair giggled, eyeing me as she took a sip