I gesture at the yearbook wordlessly.

With one deep breath, Juniper cracks open the spine of the yearbook. In my head I picture any number of scenes from childrens’ movies, where the kids open a book and then topple into its illuminated pages, landing in a whole new world full of magic and adventures.

I don’t know what Juniper will find in these pages, but I don’t think it’s magic. I don’t think it’s adventure.

It takes me a second to realize I’m holding my breath. I’m nearly as tense as she is. Her posture is stiffer than it was a moment ago, and her hands are clasping the book tightly. She turns page after page, though, almost mechanical in her timing, until she finally reaches what she’s looking for.

I know she’s found it because the page turning stops, but also because a little sigh escapes her.

“There,” she breathes. “There she is. Nora Bean.” She points, and I lean closer, noting that sweet citrus scent of hers again. It seems to be stronger when her hair is wet.

“Oh, I see,” I say once I’ve focused. The photos in the yearbook are small, and they’re in black and white, but still I can kind of make out the features. The girl is smiling, with blonde hair.

“And here,” Juniper says, pointing at another photo, this one larger, part of a collage. It’s a blonde girl surrounded by three guys, all of them smiling.

“Wow,” Juniper says, her voice cracking. “She looks so…happy.”

She does look happy. The girl in the photo is beaming at the camera, a beautiful, carefree smile that has the attention of more than one of the other guys—the boy to her left and the boy on the far right are both looking at her rather than at the camera.

“You could be twins,” I say. Even though the photo is black and white, I can tell that Nora’s hair is the same blonde as Juniper’s was when I was tutoring her. There’s something about Nora’s smile that reminds me of her daughter’s, too—an untamed, almost reckless quality that promises mischief or even trouble.

“Yeah,” Juniper says. “People told us that all the time.”

When I hear the thread of bitterness in her voice, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s too late to take it back, though, so I change the subject instead.

“Maybe these are the friends your brother’s dad mentioned?” I say, pointing to the guys surrounding Nora.

“They are,” she says. She points to the caption, reading out loud. “Laughter at lunch time for the Elite group of friends. Left to right: Cam Verido, Thomas Freese, Nora Bean, Lionel Astor.” She snorts, shaking her head and looking at me. “The Elites. What a stupid name.”

I nod. Then I frown as something she’s just said registers.

“Hang on, let me see that,” I say, leaning in.

She tilts the yearbook so that I can see it, and I squint, checking the caption to the photo. Sure enough, there it is:Lionel Astor.

“That’s Rocco’s brother,” I say, blinking in surprise.

“Rocco…” Juniper says slowly, like she’s trying to place the name.

“The gym teacher you met at the dance,” I say. I point at the boy in the photo. “That’s his brother. He’s a bigshot now, running for governor.”

“Oh,” Juniper says. She looks at me, her face displaying some of the same surprise I feel. “I knew Rocco looked familiar. He looks like this guy—Lionel.” She points. “I’ve seen Lionel’s commercials—theHome-grown Mancommercials. With the corporate hair? That’s this guy?”

“The black hair, yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s him. He lives here, over in The Heights.” I look more closely at the picture; Lionel is shown in profile only, his head turned to look at Nora. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t hear the name.

And holy crap.

If what Nora told her ex was true,Lionel Astorcould be Juniper’s father.

She seems to be coming to the same conclusion. “He—he could be—he might be—”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. I gesture to the photo. “Any of them could, if your mom was telling the truth.”

We let that sink in for a moment, both of us silent as we stare at the four smiling students.

“You know, it’s weird,” Juniper says. She’s still looking at the photo, but something in her gaze seems lightyears away now. “I’ve never really thought about what my mom’s life was like before I came along. I mean, I asked her a few times—just random questions about growing up or whatever, but she never really answered.” She touches the picture, one pink-nailed finger resting on her mom’s beaming face. “She was never this happy when she was with me.”

They’re heavy words, the kind I can’t even begin to answer, and I have no business trying. Nor can I offer meaningless platitudes.