Page 46 of The Escape Plan

I can imagine the young women of generations past coming in here to peruse the volumes on the shelves, trying to find information for papers they were writing. College during the pre-internet era must have been such a different experience.

I cross the room to another large bookshelf and squint up at a line of thick-spined hardcovers cased in burgundy leather on the top shelf.

“Becks?” I call and he crosses the room in three long strides. “Up there.”

He comes to stand behind me, his large body shadowing mine as he reaches up and easily pulls a book from the top shelf. As soon as he cracks it open, a cloud of dust puffs into the air.

His mouth drops open. “It’s a yearbook!”

“Really?” My eyes widen even as I fan the dust away from my face. “What year?”

Beckett flicks through a couple of pages. “1956.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he slots the yearbook back in place, then counts four spots to the right and eases another one down.

“This one should be 1960,” he mutters.

His cheeks are flushed, and his long fingers tip-tap impatiently on the book’s cover as he leads us to a small loveseat in a corner of the room. We sink into it, our thighs almost touching, and he opens the book into the small space between us.

Spring Brook College Yearbook, Class of 1960.

We lean forward, my hair falling over my shoulder as we pore through the pages.

Soon, I see a name—and face—I recognize.

“Oh, my goodness, that’s Sissy!” I exclaim, staring at the page featuring my favorite brutally honest Texan librarian. Her hair was just as big back then as it is now, and her smile is toothy and bright and undeniablyher.

Underneath the photo, a nameplate reads “Cecelia ‘Sissy’ Brown.”

It states her major as English Literature, her place of residence as Serendipity Hall, and there’s a quote: “Seize the day, ladies. It’s yours.”

I chuckle. “She hasn’t changed a bit. She’s the head librarian at Spring View now,” I tell Becks. “‘Mayhew’ is her married name.”

Becks looks at me, his hazel eyes wide. “Cecelia was one of the names on the wall downstairs.”

“No way,” I breathe. “I never considered that Sissy was really a Cecelia. Do you think she and your grandmother could have been friends?”

“According to the names on the wall downstairs, apparently they werebestfriends.”

Becks starts flipping pages faster. In the middle of the book—before we reach the Q’s—he pauses over a few photo collages.

“That’s the courtyard outside! The Serendipity’s courtyard!” I exclaim as I point to a picture in the corner of four girls laughing with their arms wrapped around each other.

Becks’s pointer finger lands on the girl on the far right. His voice cracks a little as he says, “And that’s my grandmother.”

We share a look of triumph before I grab the book and flip ahead, racing past the M, N, O, P names until I turn to a page with a glowing photograph of none other than Noeleen Quinn.

A shiver dances down my spine. “This is crazy.”

“I’ll say.” Beckett’s eyes are moving over the page like he’s trying to soak up as much information as possible.

I pore over it, too. Her major was Music—fitting, given Becks’s musical talents—and her place of residence was also Serendipity Hall.

Her quote, however, makes my breath catch.

“‘A light heart lives a long life,’” I read aloud, my voice sounding distant. “My grandpa said that to me once. When he gave me this ring.” I hold up my hand.

Becks stares at it for a moment, and then, in a low voice, he says, “Keeley, do you mind if I take a look at that?”

---