We never talked about the kiss. The following summer, my last summer up here, he didn’t come out to the island with West anymore. I saw him in town once with a group of local kids. They were hanging out at the beach; I was with my sailing friends at the ice cream stand. He waved. I waved back. My friends asked me who he was. I said, “Nobody,” and a sliver of guilt lodged itself in my heart that has been there ever since.

As soon as I get back to the island, I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down with Jim Senior’s scrapbook at the kitchen table. The first couple of articles don’t really say anything conclusive about my father’s disappearance, just the date he was last seen, who he was, when the search happened. The one new bit of information for me is that apparently my mother called local police a few days after my father left to tell them she suspected that there could be foul play involved. At that point we were already back in Boston, coming to terms with the fact that my father had abandoned us, not aware at all that the police were out searching for my missing father. Which one was the lie?

I take a long sip of wine and push on. The next article is downright shocking. I read it three times through to make sure I really understand what I’m reading. It alludes to the possibility of infidelity between my mother and West, our caretaker, Ezra’s father. No wonder my mother protected us from this kind of press. A photo of West being led into the police station for questioning accompanies the article. Apparently, he was a suspect. I push the scrapbook away, my head reeling.

It’s obviously just small-town gossip. I would have known if my mother had been having an affair with West. He was here almost every day, and we were all close to him. I loved West like he was part of my family. A twist of nausea shoots through my stomach. I realize I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and the wine is not sitting well on my empty stomach.

Throwing together some cheese and crackers, I stand at the counter, eating them robotically, my mind traveling over everything I just read. I had no idea West was implicated in my father’s disappearance. Did Ezra know? I look at the time—only quarter to seven. Reasonable enough time to invite him for a drink. Might come across as a bit desperate, I think to myself, but to be honest, I am. Pulling out my phone, I take some time composing a text, trying my best to sound casual and a little indifferent.