“I don’t think I ever said boyfriends. She’s married.” Although not for long, if Bryce had his way.

Claire tapped harder. “I’m afraid you came to the wrong place. Secrets aren’t easy to keep, but I do my best. You’d be surprised how many I know. High school can be a hotbed of intrigue.” She dropped the pen—or more accurately flung it to the desktop—and stood. Obviously we were finished. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

She started around her desk, to usher me out, then she paused, as if considering something. She went to the nearest wall and bent to search a crowded bookcase. Finally she pulled out a hardcover volume and thrust it at me.

“You said you don’t have her yearbook. This might answer some questions then. One of our parents found this copy at a yard sale and bought it for me. It’s our class yearbook, Wendy’s and mine. I have my own copy at home. You can have this one.”

I had no choice but to take it. “Thank you, I think.”

“Your sister was a star in the drama club. You might start there.” Claire opened the door to her office. I followed her through the reception area and out into the hallway, where she gave a parting nod.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Ryan.” She was gone before I could say anything more than goodbye.

In the parking lot I debated what to do next. I decided to head to the same beach where I’d tried to show Wendy the Seabank Special. The point wouldn’t be crowded today since effort was needed to walk through the brush, and the beach itself was narrow and often slick with seaweed. Only those of us who’d discovered the glory of sunrise there, or knew that sand dollars could sometimes be found fifty yards from the shore, ever returned.

I parked on the street and got a blanket out of the back. Then with blanket, yearbook and latte, I made my way down the narrow, sandy path to the beach. This morning it was relatively free of debris, and I spread the blanket several feet above the waterline.

I didn’t open the yearbook immediately. The sun was well and truly up, but the reflection in the water was enchanting, dancing, sparkling light rippling along with the waves. Not far away, a pod of dolphins was having breakfast. While I finished my latte I watched them leap and dive, following their school of fish until they were too far away to see.

Finally I opened the yearbook. It had belonged to a girl named Diana Gordon, whose name was printed in small, cramped letters on the inside of the cover. I wondered why anybody disposed of their adolescence at a yard sale. All these years later was high school still an unpleasant memory? Had she left not only Seabank, but Planet Earth? I certainly hoped not. I was beginning to feel like a voyeur.

The opening pages were dotted with scribbled notes, the kind most yearbooks have. “I’ve loved knowing you,” or “Can you believe we’re graduating?”