“If it’s okay, I’d like to stay here and read a bit,” I add, praying Maura takes the bait. I free myself of my book bounty, unloading it onto a side table. “Your office is the perfect bookish space. Seriously.”

Buttering her up works. “Of course. I’ll check in on you later.” She strokes my hair, then my cheek, finally booping me on the nose like I’m a cat. It’s a learning curve.

Once I’m sure she’s gone and out of hearing range, I plop myself down on the floor in the corner by the yearbooks, pull the 1970 edition out. The cover is simple, somber: black with a gold Viking stamped on the front. Can’t go too peppy the year a student is murdered.

I flip it open, scanning pages packed with signatures. Maura was popular. Plenty of standard Have a nice summers and URAQTs, which I have to Google—“You are a cutie,” apparently. A cheeky poem on the front right page, in pride of place by the yearbook title:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You’re a huge bitch,

But you know I love you.

Elaine

Not the only winkingly cruel poem I find, though the only one with a heart drawn next to the signature. Kids in the seventies were assholes.

The dedication to Caroline is right up front—In loving memory—and the same posed picture from the trophy case: a senior portrait for a girl who would never graduate. There’s a footnote at the bottom right that says Turn to page 128 for more. I do, and I find an eight-page spread bursting with images, baby pics all the way up to that eerie one of the homecoming court, possibly moments before Caroline’s death. I get a closer look now: everyone onstage, a glittering crown atop the queen’s blond head. A chill runs through me.

My grandmother’s legacy. This town’s lifeblood. Dead things.

Welcome home, I guess.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I walk into Seaview High Friday morning, things have erupted into chaos.

“Vote for Around the World!” someone screams down the hallway after the warning bell. I hurry up to homeroom, passing a sign that says BEACH PARTY, BITCHES! I imagine the administration will tear that down shortly. But by lunch, the frenzy has reached a fever pitch, the four corners of the cafeteria occupied by each faction, decked out in outrageous formal wear to fit each theme.

I do a turn of the room, tray in hand. A Malibu Barbie look-alike beckons from the Beach Party table, while a redhead in an ill-advised kimono shoots me desperate come-hithers. I note her table: anemically outfitted with a blow-up Eiffel Tower model and some paper printouts.

The real fight is between A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Old Hollywood Glam, whose tables contain familiar faces.