“Why are you wondering?” asked Britt. “Because you think he might still be upset at you for ruining his film? Or because he’s hot and single?” She turned her laptop screen toward them on the table. “I mean. Look at him.”

The pictures were on the Washington Post website, accompanying a piece about the Medal of Honor ceremony.

“I’m looking.” Camille’s cheeks felt warm. She thought far too much about Finn. She told herself he was the embodiment of a bad idea—too handsome, too cocky, too . . . everything. “He really looks different with short hair.”

“But no less hot,” said Britt.

Their mom scrolled to a shot of Finn’s mother accepting the flat presentation box from the president. “He had a remarkable father, didn’t he? Gave himself up to save his team and was never seen again.”

“The pictures I ruined could have been a clue about what happened,” Camille said.

“Stop it,” her mother scolded. “It’s unfortunate, but it’s done. No point in beating yourself up about it.”

“You’re right. Still, I feel weird asking him for advice about Lisette’s pictures. The film we found in that old camera at Papa’s dates back to 1945. I was able to process it with no trouble at all. And yet I decimated the last roll Finn’s father ever shot.”

“It happens,” her mother said.

“He was disappointed. That’s even worse than him being mad. I hate disappointing people.”

“You should go out with him and pick up the tab to say you’re sorry,” Britt suggested, still gazing at her screen. “He’s gorgeous. Annapolis grad. Professor. What’s not to like?”

“The fact that he lives thirty-five hundred miles away,” Camille reminded her.

Britt sighed. “Well, there’s that.”

“I’ve decided not to date anyone for a while,” Camille told them. “Drake was really good to me, but it just didn’t work. It’s like something in me is broken.”

“Nonsense.” Her mother rubbed her shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing broken. Breakups are always hard. Don’t you dare give up hope.”

“I’m not giving up hope. I’m giving up men.”

“Let me see the pictures again,” said her mother. “I’m just so fascinated.”

Camille opened a screen on her own laptop and they looked together at the seventy-year-old photos. There were eight images in all.

They studied each one—a town, a broken bridge, the rubble of a building, a glade by a stream, a gaunt man, his face turned away from the camera, his shoulders hunched with hopelessness. The final image was the most startling of all—a stunningly beautiful woman in the late stages of pregnancy. She faced a tall cheval-glass mirror with the camera held against her distended belly.

It was a self-portrait of Lisette. She looked ethereal, like a fairy. Although the photo was in black and white, it was clear that her hair was blond.

“I have so many questions,” Camille said. “Papa could only tell me so much about the shots, because they were all taken before he was born. Obviously. I thought if I showed them to Finn, he could tell me how to find out more.”