becoming the biggest story in Massachusetts. Oz Tops Pols Polls. Franklin picks up the paper, reading the story out loud as we wait for someone to answer the hotel-desk bell on the counter we pinged, hoping for attention.
“This law-and-order thing seems to be resonating,” Franklin says, picking up the newspaper and flapping it open. “Listen to this. ‘Oscar Ortega, now an unprecedented seventeen points ahead in the polls, says his history of convictions is unmatched across the country.’ And, he told a crowd of cheering supporters, quote, ‘an Ortega administration means parents can be—’”
“Let me guess. Safe in their homes and safe in the streets,” I finish the sentence. “You’d think he’d get a new stump speech. Although this one seems to be doing the trick with voters.”
I peer across the counter and around the corner, checking for open doors in the line of offices that’s tucked on the other side. I ping the bell again. Its tinny jingle resounds hollowly through the room. No answer. “He’s not going to be happy when he hears we’re looking into Dorinda. What Oliver Rankin said at the elevator is an understatement. Bad publicity is death on the campaign trail, so Oz will certainly try to stop us. Though there’s nothing he can do, I suppose.”
Franklin puts the paper back. “Time, as they say, will tell.” He takes a few steps into the long hallway. “You know, there’s got to be someone here. Someplace. I mean, we just walked into the building. It was open.”
“How about this,” I say. “Franklin, you take the car, and hit the Swampscott paper. See if they have archives, a reporter who covered the case, old photos they didn’t use. I’ll check around here. Maybe someone’s in the library. Or the gym. Even if no one’s there, I bet there’ll be yearbooks. Names, pictures, all kinds of stuff. If someone asks what I’m doing here, I’ll…” I pause. “I’ll think of something.”
“Good luck with that,” Franklin says. “You’re probably guilty of trespassing, if someone decides to be a hard-liner about it.”
I look at my watch, ignoring him. “Call my cell in two hours,” I say. “We’ll compare notes over clam rolls at the Red Rock.”
I STILL HAVE NIGHTMARES that I didn’t study for some exam, or I’m not ready for a test, or I can’t find my classroom. Those dreams have nothing to do with high school, I’m told, and everything to do with my struggle for perfection. Still, I’m probably in for some heavy sleep drama tonight. The smell of leftover pencil sharpenings and notebook paper and industrial-strength floor wax inside the Swampscott High School library time-travels me back to Anthony Wayne High in suburban Chicago, home of the Fighting Red Devils and my four misfit years of high grades and low self-esteem. High school—get through it, then forget it. For me at least.
The glass and metal door opens without a sound and clicks back closed behind me. The fluorescent lights buzz and hum as I scan the long, narrow room. This place is deserted, too. A dark wood librarian’s desk, looming and massive, protects one end. In its sights, long pine tables with stocky chairs are lined up with geometric precision. A forest of pale wooden shelves stands in well-ordered lines, each displaying a brass and paper bracket, block lettered to show the range of Dewey Decimal numbers it contains. I’m on the prowl for yearbooks. And since there’s no one here to stop me, I’m going to find them. I head for the stacks and search until I see a line of tall, narrow, identical dark blue books. The gilt-lettered year is on the spine of each.
I grab the wooden ladder, and slide it closer, doing the math in my head. Dorinda Sweeney. Class of 19—she’s forty-three years old, so that would mean—82. I climb up, spot the book and pull it from the shelf. The Seagull. Almost ceiling-high on the ladder, I prop my open book against the row of closed ones. No index.
Maddy Barone
Catty Diva
Barbara Delinsky
Brian M. Wiprud
Penny Vincenzi
Christine Trent
Peter Brandvold
Jacquelyn Frank
Erika Wilde
Adrian Phoenix