“Fred Gilman, for instance?”

Lizzy waited a beat before answering, trying to tamp down her frustration. “Tell me you wouldn’t have taken a second look at him if you knew Heather’s home life was falling apart. I spoke with a friend of hers from high school—Jenny Putnam—and she backed up everything Susan said.”

“We questioned her right after the girls went missing. We questioned several of Heather’s friends. No one knew anything. At least not anything they were willing to share.”

“Well, her memory seems to have improved with age. And maybe hers isn’t the only one. I’ve been thinking about looking up some more of her classmates, maybe knock on a few doors, see what people remember.”

There was a long stretch of quiet. The kind that meant the person on the other end was forming a response that might not be well received. “I’m not sure that’s wise given what’s already happened.”

“What’s . . . happened?”

“Andrew told me about the doll. He also told me you refused to call the police.”

“I didn’t refuse, Roger. I’m just . . . waiting.”

“For what? A noose is a threat, Lizzy. There’s no other way to spin it. And you’re the one insisting there’s a killer on the loose in Salem Creek. Why not leave the door-knocking to me?”

It irked her that he didn’t believe her capable of talking to a few ex-cheerleaders. She was also worried that a detective—even one not in uniform—would make them skittish. The good people of Salem Creek might claim to believe in law and order, but they had an ingrained distrust of those sworn to uphold it.

“I’ll make you a deal, Detective,” Lizzy said, as she restarted the car. “I’ll track down Heather’s classmates and see what I can find out. If I stumble onto anything promising, I’ll turn them over to you for the thumbscrews and rubber hoses.”

He sighed, a sound of resignation. “You do realize that you nosing around isn’t going to sit well with folks.”

“I’m a Moon, Detective. We’re used to most things we do not sitting well with folks.”

EIGHTEEN

August 2

The school office was smaller than Lizzy remembered, a warren of closed doors, scarred desks, and hideous chairs stamped out of orange plastic. The smells were the same, though: a combination of coffee, scotch tape, and printer ink perpetually suspended in the fuggy air.

A woman behind one of the desks slid her glasses down her nose, brows raised. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I was wondering if the school might have back copies of old yearbooks lying around somewhere.”

The woman blinked at her. “Old yearbooks?”

“I’m looking for 2012 specifically. I’m back for a visit and was hoping to look up some old acquaintances, but I’m afraid I need to jog the old memory.”

The woman surveyed her with a bland expression. If she found the request suspect, she gave no sign. “You need the library,” she said crisply. “They have a full set going back to 1973, when the school was built. Ask for Jeannie. She’ll know where to find them.”

Jeannie, as it turned out, ran the library like the Pentagon, requiring Lizzy to sign in at the front desk, including name, time of arrival, and the purpose of her visit. Standard procedure for all nonstudents, she explained brusquely. She was then asked about her intentions for the yearbook and informed in no uncertain terms that the books from the archives were for review on premises only, and never allowed off the property. Lizzy assured her the yearbook would be going no farther than the cafeteria. In the end, Jeannie relented, but only after Lizzy offered to leave her driver’s license as collateral.

She was probably on a fool’s errand, but she had to at least try.

She had jolted awake at 3:00 a.m. with an image in her head: a woman wearing a hairnet over a puff of mousy brown hair. The Lunch Lady—who smelled of violets and talcum powder, and had been kind to a girl who spent every lunch hour with her nose in a book. Sometimes an extra Jell-O had found its way onto her tray. Or a second cookie, when they were oatmeal raisin, because they were her favorite.

At first, she couldn’t imagine why the memory had surfaced, but eventually it dawned on her. What better place to begin her search for Heather’s high school friends than with a woman who’d spent virtually every day of the last thirty years feeding Salem Creek’s teens?

Louise Ryerson.

Like most kids, Lizzy had known her only as the Lunch Lady, but Evvie had had no trouble coming up with her name, or confirming that she was still working at the school. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to provide an address, and directory assistance had been no help. Which left calling on her during her work hours, and asking if she’d be willing to sit down and look at a few photographs. It was a long shot, she knew. Nearly a decade had passed since Heather Gilman and her friends had walked the halls of Salem Creek High, but maybe the yearbook would help her remember.

It was the start of August, when only summer classes were in session, and lunchtime to boot, leaving the halls eerily empty as Lizzy navigated her way to the cafeteria. A wave of déjà vu hit her as she stepped through the double doors, followed by a wave of nausea as she registered the stomach-churning pong of grease, ketchup, and overcooked vegetables.

Scores of teenage eyes followed her as she moved between the rows of long tables—curious stares, mostly, wondering who she was and what she was doing there. A parent, perhaps, or a substitute teacher. They were all so young, so animated and carefree. The way she’d wanted to be when she was their age.

She scanned the area behind the serving counter, where a pair of women in white coats were breaking down the steam table. If the clock above the door was right—and it always was—the bell would ring in four and a half minutes, signaling the end of lunch period. Until then, she’d find a quiet corner and do her best to blend into the woodwork—like old times.

It took less than five minutes for the lunchroom to empty when the bell finally rang. Lizzy approached the counter, yearbook tucked under her arm, and waited to be noticed. After a moment she cleared her throat. Louise glanced up vacantly through steamy glasses, as if surprised to find an adult standing in her lunchroom. Her brow wrinkled as their eyes met, but there was no flicker of recollection as far as Lizzy could tell.

“Mrs. Ryerson, you probably don’t remember me, but I was a student here a long time ago. My name is—”

“Lizzy Moon,” she said, her face lighting up. “You’re Althea’s granddaughter.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I heard you were back. So sad about your grandmother.”

Lizzy smiled benignly. “Thank you. I was wondering if we could talk.”

“Talk?”

“I have some questions you might be able to help me with. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. If we could just sit down for a few minutes . . .” She paused as a woman with hair the color of Mercurochrome walked by with an armload of dirty trays, then continued in a lower voice. “I think you might be able to help me.”

Louise nodded blankly as she peeled off her food-service gloves and tossed them aside. “All right then, if it won’t take long. We can sit over here.”

Lizzy followed her to one of the long lunch tables and settled across from her. “Thank you for doing this. I’d like to talk about the Gilman sisters.”

The corners of Louise’s mouth turned down. She’d changed surprisingly little over the years. Her puff of hair was nearly white now, and the lines on either side of her mouth had deepened, but her hairnet was still in place, and her face was still kind.

“Such a shame. That poor mother. And your grandmother. What this town put her through—an absolute travesty.”

“Yes,” Lizzy said, eager to get to the point. “Which is why I’m here. I know it’s a long shot, but I’d like to find out what really happened if I can, and I think talking to some of Heather’s friends might help me do that. The trouble is I don’t know their names, or how to contact them. I was hoping you might be able to help me there.” She paused, sliding the yearbook over to Louise’s side of the table. “I brought this. I thought pictures might help.”

She opened the book to the tenth-grade section, scanning the photos until she found what she was looking for—Heather showing just a hint of dimple as she smiled for the camera. “This is Heather,” she told Louise. “Could you look at the pictures and see if anyone else jumps out at you? Someone who might have been her friend? A boy, maybe?”

Louise looked at the yearbook, then back at Lizzy. “That’s been a long time ago now.”

“I know, but could you at least look?”

“I suppose I could try.”