With those questions swarming his mind, he wrestled himself to his feet, snatched up the cap and the book, and set off to raid the kitchen. There wasn’t much to choose from, and he was forced to settle for two old cans of peaches. He sat on the back porch with Bear’s book, the fruit, and a fork. The lake was choppy this morning, and he watched the waves drive diagonally toward the shore, thinking about Bear.

Bear on her banquette, reading. The way she drank tea like her mom, cup in both hands, blowing on it gently as she gazed out her window. He held the book to his nose, hoping for a smell that would pull him deeper into his childhood, but it was just an old book. He flipped through it and ate peaches out of the can.

From beginning to end, the margins were crammed with notes that had been written since he’d finished reading it to her. Billy had shown him the margin notes last night; he admitted he’d gotten drunk one night and vowed to read the book and her notes cover to cover in the hopes that he’d find some clue as to what happened to her. He’d given up on page fifty. It was just kid stuff, he’d said.

“Some are addressed to outer space and shit. I don’t know. Too deep for me.”

Gibson flipped to the beginning and started reading.

Suzanne’s notes were written in a precise, microscopic hand and arranged in no particular order and with no discernible chronology. From what he could tell, they appeared to have been written over several years—in different colored inks, with some entries more faded than others. A few were actually about The Fellowship of the Ring, but those were distinctly in the minority. Most were snippets of song lyrics, movie quotes, lists of likes and dislikes, stray observations. It was the brightly colored musings of a precocious young girl. He could imagine Ellie doing something similar in a few years, although given her handwriting she would need much bigger margins.

He read slowly for a few pages, then, becoming restless, began turning pages quickly, letting his eyes trawl for anything significant. He flipped ahead ten pages, then twenty. Until it was just fields of ink: blue, pink, green, red. He stopped.

Orange.

It brought to mind a memory that made his stomach pitch. Something Bear had asked him long ago. He’d been in the kitchen at Pamsrest. Mrs. Lombard was making him a grilled cheese sandwich, and he was reading a comic book. Bear had appeared at his side, out of breath.

“Gib-Son. Gib-Son.”

“Uh-huh,” he said absently.

“Son! I need to ask you something.”

He stopped reading and looked at her.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

He told her it was orange—because of the Orioles.