I scan through a bunch of profile pictures. She doesn’t have a lot of “friends” online, and most of them are as inactive online as she is, but it’s worth a try. I pick a handful of the ones who seem most promising and send them all the same message. Hi, sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to contact Naomi Greer. Do you have any idea how I can find her?

When I’m done, I sit back in my chair, try to think what my next move is. The Internet obviously isn’t working. What I need is someone who knows her. Someone who could give me some kind of clue as to where she could be. There has to be someone who knows where she is. And then I think of it: the playbill from the box Emma gave me.

That thing was full of names. It’s very likely that my mom has lost touch with most of the people she grew up with, but what if one of them has heard from her in the last few years? What if one of them is still in her inner circle? She’d always been good at finding people to help us out. I only need one contact.

I do not want to go tromping through Emma’s memorabilia, but this is the only new lead I’ve had in years. What if there’s something in there that could help me? These were people who had known her for years, weren’t they? Before I can talk myself out of it, I clear my history and head upstairs to find the shoebox in my closet.

The items are exactly as brutal as I remember. There’s the shiny version of my mom, healthy and hopeful, posing for photos with people I don’t know. I check the back for names but don’t find any. I glance through her notes, and her handwriting and the silly bubblegum things she wrote makes my throat ache again. In chem right now, hate everything except James, who is looking FINE. And Meet Cammy and me in the quad? I have something SCANDULOUS to tell you. GET EXCITED!!!

I wish I knew what said scandalous thing was. And I already have two names. James and Cammy.

I write down their names in my notebook, then keep digging through the shoebox. Anytime I find a name that I think might help, I write it down. Finally, I hit the bottom, where I find a bill-sized envelope. I’m about to toss it back with the rest of the pile when the name on the return address catches my eye. Night Sky House.

Huh.

The envelope has already been ripped open, the letter stuffed back inside, and I carefully remove it.

* * * * *

Night Sky House

Tallahassee, Florida

Dear Ms. Morgan,

Thank you for your recent payment. We have enclosed a receipt for your records.

Sincerely,

David Gonzalez

Director