Everything was methodically laid out, not in my mother’s small, neat handwriting, but in the sweeping, cursive strokes of Zélie Bookmans. I took the notebook over to the only window. At first glance, nothing jumped out at me, but on closer inspection I noticed something. In an inventory on March 27, 1993, Zélie noted this:

One red wig missing.

This detail did not prove anything—props were regularly mislaid, and it was not unknown for a costume to disappear. Even so, I felt that this was another step toward the truth. But toward a dark and bitter truth I did not want to uncover.

I left the lecture hall and headed back to the library. I packed my things and went over to the lending desk.

Her head thrown back, her eyes smoldering, Pauline Delatour gave a slightly affected laugh as she flirted with two of the senior students, tall, muscular, blond guys who, judging from their clothes, their comments, and their copious sweating, had just come from playing a heated tennis match.

“Thank you,” I said, handing her the copies of Courrier Sud.

“Glad I could help, Thomas.”

“Can I hang on to the yearbook for a while?”

“Sure, I’ll square things with Zélie. But don’t forget to send it back.”

“One last thing. There was an issue missing, October 1992.”

“I noticed that. It wasn’t on the shelf, and I checked to see whether it had fallen down the back, but I couldn’t find it.”

The tennis players were giving me the evil eye. They were eager for me to leave so they could have Pauline’s coquettish attentions all to themselves.

“Don’t worry,” I said.

I was already turning to leave when she grabbed my sleeve.

“Wait a minute. The school digitized the archives of Courrier Sud in 2012.”

“So could you find the missing issue?”

“I can do better than that,” she said as she dragged me toward her office. The two jocks, frustrated at being ignored, walked off. “I can print it out for you.”

“Thanks.”

It took less than a minute to print. Then she carefully stapled the pages together and proffered the document to me. But as I reached out to take it, she snatched it away.

“Surely it’s worth a dinner invitation, at least?”

“I’m guessing you don’t need me to get an invitation to dinner.”

“Why don’t I give you my cell phone number?”

“No, honestly, just give me the pages you’ve been kind enough to print out.”

Still smiling, she scribbled her number on the top page.

“What do you expect me to do with that, Pauline?”

“I like you; you like me. It’s a start, isn’t it?” she said as though it were obvious.

“That’s not how things work.”

“That’s exactly how things have worked for centuries.”

I simply held out my hand, and eventually, she handed over the pages.