There’s confusion and sympathy in Jim’s eyes, which makes me realize how strange it was that my mother would rather have us think our father was an asshole who took off than remember him as a great man who had something bad happen to him.

I’m starting to wish I’d never come when his features suddenly brighten and he claps his hands together. “I think I might have the answer. My dad, he kept a scrapbook of all the newspaper clippings about events around town.” He motions for me to follow him into the office.

Reaching high up on a bookshelf packed with binders, carboard boxes, and the odd book, Jim pulls down a brown, leather-bound photo album. “This would be it,” he says, placing it on the counter in front of me. The sound of a boat approaching draws his attention to the window. “Take your time with it. I’ll just go help this customer.”

The pages of the book are covered with newspaper clippings, no bit of the paper underneath left visible. I flip past articles on cottages being broken into over the summer, on the drowning of a little boy at the beach, on a storm that caused thousands of dollars in damages. There are obituaries from people Jim Senior must have known and stories about business openings and closings, bar fights, and how the recession affected tourism and the locals.

Jim Senior’s love for his community sits right here in this meticulous preservation of his town’s current events. As touching as it is, I flip forward until I find articles from 1991, the year my father disappeared. There are two whole pages dedicated to the frigid temperatures and record-breaking snowfalls of that winter. Just when I feel my frustration rising, I turn the page and the words Avril Island jump right out at me. I’ve found what I’m looking for.

I skim the headlines: Summer Resident Disappears Without a Trace; Where Is Simon Bennett? Avril Island Affair Gone Wrong; Local Man Connected to Simon Bennett’s Disappearance; Search for Avril Island’s Owner Continues.

My mouth is suddenly very dry, and I’m finding it hard to focus on the words in front of me. How did all of this happen without me ever knowing? It feels as though I’ve stumbled into some alternate, more sinister version of my life.

The bell over the door jangles, startling me out of my shock, and Jim steps inside the office. “Find what you’re looking for?” His cheerfulness makes a surreal contrast to what is going on inside me.

“I did, actually.” I force lightness into my voice. “But I was wondering, Jim. Would you mind if I borrowed the scrapbook for the night? Just so I can take my time with it.” I give the book a pat. “There’s so much history in here; would hate to miss anything.”