Page 39

“Miller’s senior yearbook.” Knox leans back on his heels, still catching his breath. “I flipped through it, and there’s a girl in there—it’s under Cristina, but she sure looks like the Cricket that Sheila described, and I think it’s worth checking. Page eighty-three.”

My fingers trace the embossed year on the cover, and Knox takes the chance to grab the sorbet I’ve set aside. I can’t even find it in me to care as I open the book to page eighty-three, and sure enough, there she is.

Dark hair in a messy braid. Smudged eyeliner. A grin big enough to swallow the whole page and her arm slung around a girl whose face is turned sideways—a girl who is definitely my mom. Blond hair, cut into a bob that she used to complain about having to grow out when I was little. One time I told her I wanted my natural hair to be cut shorter so it would be easier to deal with. But she fussed and fussed over how hard it is to grow hair out, especially with my curls, and that I was better off letting it grow as long as possible. It reaches the middle of my back now.

If Knox recognizes Mom in the picture, he pretends not to. Or maybe he really does think I’m running around looking for someone nicknamed Cricket just so I can find a long-lost dog owner, though I’m sure he has doubts about that slowly forming.

One photo over from the one of Mom is one of a guy in a football jersey that has the same number as the jersey Mom wore in an old picture I found in a shoebox, the one with hearts drawn all over it. His face is cut off and the picture is in black and white, grainy details wearing around the edges, but just on the outskirts of it you can see a short blond sitting on a bench, and behind his back as he leans into her you can just barely see where their fingers are intertwined.

Finally.

A clue that feels like it actually means something. Enough proof that this has to be the guy that she was in love with; who else could it be? This would be close to the same time that they…fell out of love? Broke up? He ran away? I don’t know what exactly happened, but I know she would have dropped out within a year of this being taken, that’s for sure.

Knox’s voice is quiet, careful. “Can you really not tell me anything else about what we’re looking for?”

Guilt flicks its claws into my stomach, but I’m not ready to give up on something I just now started. Not ready to hear that he thinks this is pointless or stupid, or for him to reiterate just how much he hates my mom after last January. I don’t want to have to quit this before I can know if it will even work.

“I told you the important parts,” I mumble, refusing to look at him. “Just…that I was searching for a girl who went by Cricket.”

“Felicity.” Knox leans close and his knee brushes mine. Warm and solid and familiar in a way that shakes me a little, in a way that makes my knee brush right back. Tingles of little sparks dance across the edges of my skin and up my legs. It’s the way I always feel when he touches me now, ever since this summer.

“You know I’d help you with whatever you need.”

My throat tightens. I hate how well he does this—makes me feel safe and seen and like I’m seconds away from unraveling all at once. He makes it impossible to lie to him; he gives you those kind, gentle eyes, and lying feels like…I don’t know, kicking a puppy.

I flip the page so I don’t have to focus on it too much. I just want to do this and prove to him I can get her to stay, and yes, I need his help, but I don’t need him tossing the whole plan out the window like it’s yesterday’s garbage.

It’s easy for him to judge on the outside—his family is perfect.

I mean, yes, there were a couple years there where Lottie’s epilepsy really gave us all a fright, and it still does sometimes. And there was a rumor in town about his father’s potential infidelity, but it was disputed this summer when we found out the truth about their parents’ short breakup.

I guess there’s no such thing as a perfect family, but as far as families go, Knox has the best one. He wouldn’t understand wanting one blood-related person that you could call on in a time of need. And Mom could be that if I could just get her to stay down here longer than a single night.

Maybe this trip she stays…five nights. Then this mystery guy and her start talking and she comes down for two weeks. Next time it could be three weeks. A month. Two months. Before she realizes it, this will be her real home, and she can pack all that LA junk away and be here with us. Whatever hope, whatever dream she’s been chasing, she could find right here. With me.

“We should go talk to someone else in this picture who actually knew her,” I say instead of shouting my every thought, shoving to my feet and ignoring the way Knox follows immediately like my shadow, sorbet still in hand.

***

Oak Ridge’s downtown bookstore smells like cinnamon pine cones and dust, and the bell jingles overhead as Knox pushes inside, holding the door open for me.

Mrs. Alderidge is behind the counter, sorting through a stack of used paperbacks with a pair of reading glasses perched at the end of her nose.

When she recognizes Knox, she lights up. “Hi, Mr. Turner! Are you here for another mystery novel? Or more duck-raising guides?”

Knox blushes so hard that I desperately want a picture of his cheeks right now, all ruby red. I have got to stop leaving my phone in the car. “Uh…no, ma’am. We had a question.”

I slide the yearbook across the glass counter, next to a potted fiddle-leaf fig and a box of trinkets. “Do you know this girl? Cricket? Or her real name, I think, is Cristina.”

Mrs. Alderidge squints, takes a moment, then snaps her fingers. “Cristina, yes! My goodness, she and your mother”—she nods at me like she knows exactly whose face is beside Cricket’s in the photo—“were glued together back then.”

My heart leaps into my throat as Knox stares me down. I don’t glance his way, brushing off the heat of his gaze. I didn’t exactly think the potential name drop of my mom would come from Mrs. Alderidge, but my hope is that if I can brush it off quickly enough, then Knox won’t bring it back up again.

“Do you know where she is now?” I ask.

“Oh sure. She manages that movie theater two towns over past Gadsden. The one with the sticky floors.” She waves a hand with a blegh sound. “Loud girl. Talked too much. But she had a good heart.”

Relief tastes bittersweet, hope mixed with nerves.