“A whopper,” Ryan said.

“And what might that be?”

Diana reached for her tote and removed what I could see then was a scrapbook, the pages thick with newspaper clippings, programs, souvenirs, and party favors, some of which were sticking out. The assemblage was clearly the work of someone suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder, who couldn’t bear to throw anything away. She’d marked a particular page and she turned to it, reversing the album so I could see the contents without craning my neck.

Looking down, she said, “I started this when I was eight. To remind you of the family order, by the time Michael turned six, David was ten years old, Ryan was twelve, and I was fourteen.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said. I could see she was stringing it out and I could hardly keep from rolling my eyes.

“I can assure you, you’re unaware of this,” she said. “To celebrate his birthday that year, Mom and Dad took us all to Disneyland. You can see for yourself.”

She pointed to a photograph that showed a costumed Mickey Mouse and Cinderella in the background. All four kids were seated at a table in an outdoor café, leaning toward the center so the photographer could get them all in one shot. Michael and his siblings wore paper hats, all of them grinning for the camera. The paper tablecloth, napkins, and cups were decorated with Happy Birthday greetings in several different fonts. The birthday cake was at Michael’s place, with six candles burning away merrily.

I nearly said, So what? I was thinking, Shit, a birthday doesn’t have to be celebrated on the actual day. Parents can throw a party anytime they please.

Diana sensed my response and moved her finger to the date along the bottom of the photograph. July 21, 1967. “You might note these as well if you’re not convinced.”

She turned the pages for me like a teacher reading a picture book upside down so I’d have it in perspective. She’d pasted in dated programs, ticket stubs, receipts, and additional snapshots that showed the kids on a variety of rides. Every item that bore a date supported her claim.

Ryan spoke up as though on cue. “There’s something else.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“It’s about the Kirkendalls.”

He was hoping I’d prompt him, but I was tired of their routine. I said nothing, forcing him to flounder on without an assist. He cleared his throat and coughed once, saying, “Sorry. Keith Kirkendall was a CPA who embezzled $1.5 million from the firm he worked for. The discrepancies showed up during an independent audit and the authorities were closing in. He took his family and vanished overnight.”

“So I’ve heard.”