Watkins stood, pushing back his chair enough to slide out from behind the desk. He walked over to the bookcase, pulled out what appeared to be a yearbook bound in faded blue cloth, and returned to hand it over to Brook. The gold embossing was still visible despite the wear.
“This was from our final year teaching together before I moved into administration.” Principal Watkins made his way back around his desk. Once he was seated, he gestured toward the book. “Loretta features prominently. She usually did since she was the students’ favorite instructor.”
Brook browsed through some of the pages until she reached the faculty photographs. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Loretta Whitlow was slim with high cheekbones that her son had inherited. Her dark hair was cut just so to frame her heart-shaped face, and she wore a modest silk scarf around her neck. Not yellow, but rather a deep burgundy thatcomplemented her complexion. There was a quiet dignity in her posture, a sense of self-possession that emanated even from the flat image.
“There are more photographs throughout, of course,” Watkins explained as he laced his fingers once more. “Loretta was involved in nearly everything—academic competitions, prom committee, graduation preparations.”
“Loretta wasn't married,” Brook stated, already aware of the woman’s marital status. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to sift through some more personal information should Watkins be so inclined to share. “Do you know if she was dating anyone back then?”
“Oh, goodness, no.” Principal Watkins shook his head at the mere suggestion of Loretta being involved with someone. “Figg's father was never in the picture, at least not during the time I knew them. And Loretta never mixed business with pleasure. As far as I know, she was never serious about anyone.”
Brook absorbed the information while continuing to examine the yearbook. She flipped back to check the publication date, making a mental calculation.
“This would have been Heather Moore's senior year,” Brook noted, lifting her gaze to monitor Watkins' reaction carefully.
“Yes, I believe so.” Principal Watkins pulled his arms from the desk and leaned back in his chair. “Heather was an excellent student. Quiet, but very bright.”
Brook held out the yearbook to Bit.
“Were Loretta and Heather close?”
“Close?” Principal Watkins’ tone had taken on a defensive edge. “How so? Heather and Figg graduated together, if that’s what you mean. Not that they ran in the same circles. Figg’s friends were more…well, let’s just say colorful. I don’t think he appreciated that his mother not only had a role in his private life, but also his academic existence.”
“Can you recall a student who took a shine to Loretta?”
“You mean an unhealthy attachment,” Principal Watkins amended, not willing to be fooled by any casual question. “And no, I don’t. Some of those kids might have had some home problems, but no one would have murdered Heather years later. And if you’re suggesting that one of those kids killed Loretta, you should know that?—”
“Yes, I do know that Loretta Whitlow died of cancer.” Brook had hoped that Principal Watkins would be willing to share information regarding Heather’s classmates, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe any of his former students had the ability to harm another. “Did Loretta ever tutor any students at home?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Principal Watkins replied as his gaze switched to Bit and then back again. “Such personal interaction is frowned upon by the administration. Still is, as a matter of fact. If a student needs additional help, they can arrange for a tutoring session in the library. Loretta was a stickler for the rules, too.”
Bit had been paging through the yearbook. He’d been staring at one for quite some time, his knee bouncing with an increasing intensity, a sure sign he’d noticed something significant. She waited until she’d caught his attention, giving him a subtle nod of approval.
Bit stood abruptly, causing Principal Watkins to startle. Before he could speak, Bit had set the yearbook on the desk facing the opposite way. He pointed to a group photograph. Brook slowly stood to join them as they all studied what appeared to be a book club posed in the school library.
Loretta Whitlow was standing at the center.
“Who is this?” Bit asked, pointing toward a boy standing slightly apart from the main group. “There are seven names underneath the photograph, but he would make eight.”
By this time, Principal Watkins had leaned forward, squinting at the image. It wasn’t until after he’d reached for his reading glasses that he was able to answer Bit’s inquiry.
“Ah,” Principal Watkins said after a moment. “He shouldn't have been in that picture, actually. He was a freshman, not yet a member of the club.”
Brook leaned closer to study the image. The boy stood at the edge of the frame, yet his expression was anything but casual. His gaze was fixed entirely on Loretta Whitlow with an intensity that was immediately apparent. His expression was one of pure adoration mixed with something harder to define. While the other students smiled at the camera or chatted among themselves, he seemed to exist in a separate reality in which only the teacher mattered.
“What is his name?” Brook pressed, the significance of the boy's expression not lost on her.
Watkins hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.
“I don’t think you understand,” Principal Watkins said, attempting once more to escape their direct question. “This boy couldn’t have murdered Heather Moore.”
“His name, Principal Watkins.”
“Henry, but he was in a car accident a year after this photograph was taken. He’s paralyzed from the waist down, and he’s been in a wheelchair ever since.”
Brook studied the photograph again, taking in the details she'd missed initially.
“You’re saying the boy in this picture is Henry Quinn?”
