Soon I passed buildings, some small, some large, each looking like a set straight out of Christmas in Connecticut. Ivy-covered chimneys, long porches, white siding, black shutters.

I knew Heatherhill’s forty acres contained multiple structures. A chronic-pain center. A gym. A library. A computer lab. Amenities for the well heeled with issues.

Knew only too well.

Beyond the four-story main hospital, I split off onto a tributary road, passed a low-rise building housing business and admissions offices, and made another left. The tiny lane ended fifty yards later in a rectangle of gravel enclosed by a white picket fence.

I parked, grabbed my jacket and purse, and got out.

Through a gate in the fence, a flagstone path led to a small bungalow. Above its door, a sign said River House. One calming breath, then I started toward it.

On the inside, River House could have been anyone’s mountain cottage. Anyone with a predilection for antique reproductions and a whole lot of bucks.

The floors were wide plank and covered with Oushaks and Sarouks that cost more than my house. The upholstery involved shades a decorator probably called mushroom and moss. The wooden pieces were stained and distressed to look old.

I wound through the living room, past gas-fed flames dancing in a stacked stone fireplace, and exited double glass doors at the back of the house. The deck held a teak table and matching chairs, several tubs planted with pansies and marigolds, and four chaise lounges with bright melon cushions.

The farthest chaise had been displaced several feet and angled away from the others. On it was a woman with white hair cut pixie-short. Before her, on the porch rail, sat a thick ceramic mug. The woman wore khaki slacks and an Irish sweater that hung to the middle of her thighs. On her feet were ballet flats, two-tone, the leather on the toes a perfect match for the pants.

I watched a moment. The woman sat motionless, hands clasped, eyes fixed on a forest thick with morning shadows.

I approached, my bootfalls loud in the stillness.

The woman didn’t turn.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it last night.” Cheerful as Mickey’s Marching Band.

No response.

I dragged a chaise close and positioned it parallel. Sat sideways, oriented toward the woman. “I like your new haircut.”

Nothing.

“The drive was good. I made it in under two hours.”

Still no acknowledgment of my presence.

“You sounded upset last night. Are you feeling better?”

A bird landed on the rail. A nuthatch, maybe a waxwing.

“Are you angry with me?”

The bird cocked its head and regarded me with one shiny black eye. The woman crossed her ankles. The bird startled and took flight.

“I was planning to come for Thanksgiving.” Still speaking to her profile. “That’s next Thursday.”

“I’m aware of the date. I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course you’re not.”

A fly dropped onto the rim of the mug. I watched it test its way around the perimeter, feelers and front legs working the substrate. Tentative. Unsure what to expect. I felt total empathy.

“Did you know that Carrauntoohil is Ireland’s highest mountain?” The woman unclasped her hands and laid them on the armrests. The skin was liver-spotted, the nails perfect ovals painted dusty rose.

“I didn’t.”

“It’s in County Kerry. Rises thirty-four hundred feet above sea level. Not much of a mountain, if you ask me.”

I reached out and placed my hand on hers. The bones felt fragile beneath my palm. “How are you?” I asked.

One cable-knit shoulder lifted ever so slightly.

“You said you have something you want to share.”

The woman’s free hand floated up, held, as though unsure of its purpose in rising. Dropped.

“Are you unwell?”

Again the shoulder.

“Mama?”

Deep gusty sigh.

They say a daughter becomes some variation of her mother. A different reading of an old script. A new interpretation of an existing character.

I studied the face so vigilantly preserved by creams and lifts and injections. By wide-brimmed hats in summer and long cashmere scarves in winter. The flesh was looser, the wrinkles deeper, the lids a bit droopy. Otherwise, it was the mirrored reflection I’d seen at the CMPD. The green eyes, the set jaw.

The air of tension. Of guardedness.

I knew I resembled my mother physically. But I’d always believed the similarity ended there. That I was an exception. A contradiction to the rule.

I was not my mother. I never would be.

Physicians, psychiatrists, psychologists. So many diagnoses. Bipolar. Schizoaffective. Schizobipolar. Disorder of the moment. Choose your favorite.

Lithium. Carbamazepine. Lamotrigine. Diazepam. Lorazepam.

No medication ever worked for long. No treatment ever stuck. For weeks my mother would be the warm, vibrant person I loved, a woman who brought sunshine into every room she entered. Happy, funny, clever. Then the demons would claim her again.

Bottom line: my mother is as loony as a bag of squirrels.

Throughout my childhood, each time the blackness descended, Mama would pack her Louis Vuittons; kiss my sister, Harry, and me; and disappear in the old Buick with Daddy at the wheel. Later Gran.

But there were no public hospitals for Daisy Brennan, née Katherine Daessee Lee. Over the years Mama visited dozens of private facilities, each with a name that promised healing in the bosom of nature. Silver Birch. Whispering Oaks. Sunny Valley.

Mama never made an encore appearance. Always something was lacking. The food. The room. The attentiveness of the staff.

Until Heatherhill. Here the menu suited, and she had her own room and bath. And after so many visits, she was now welcome to stay as long as she liked. As long as the Lee family trust ponied up.

Mama spoke without meeting my eyes, voice low and honeyed as Charleston in August. “ ‘In that other room I shall be able to see.’ ”

The quote sent cold rippling across my chest. “Helen Keller.” Mama loved Keller’s story, retold it often when Harry and I were kids.

Mama nodded.

“She was speaking of death.”

“I’m old, darlin’. It happens to all of us.”

Was this a ruse? A new ploy to gain my attention? A delusion?

“Look at me, Mama.” More stern than I’d intended.

For the first time she rotated to face me. Her expression was serene, her gaze clear and composed. The sunshine Mama.

When I was younger, I’d have tried to force an explanation. I knew better now. “I’ll speak to Dr. Finch.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” The manicured hand slipped free of mine and patted my knee. “No sense spoiling the little time we have together.”

Behind us, the glass door opened. Closed again.

“How about you, darlin’? What’s on your plate these days?”

“Nothing extraordinary.” Murdered children. A depraved killer I’d hoped to never encounter again.

“Are you still seeing your young man?”

That threw me. “What young man?”

“Your French-Canadian detective. Are you two still an item?”

The million-dollar question. But how did Mama know?

“Did Harry tell you I was dating?” Really? Dating? Did that term even apply to the complex rituals of those over forty?

“ ’Course she did. Your sister and I have no secrets.”

“Harry could use a bit of discretion.”

“Harry is fine.”

If four husbands, obsessive overindulgence, and an insatiable need for male attention classifies as fine.

Mama leaned close and did something with her eyebrows meant to encourage shared intimacy.

There was no point denying her. “I haven’t seen him recently.”

“Oh, dear. Did he dump you?”

“His daughter died. He needs to be alone for a while.”

“Died?” The perfectly plucked brows arched up.

“She was ill.” True enough.

“Oh, how very, very sad.”