I attempt to shine my flashlight on the ground in front of me with one hand and text with the other. It’s slow going, but the distraction from my intensely awkward evening with Caden is welcome. We basically didn’t talk through the whole movie, some B horror flick from the eighties. And then I left as soon as it was over.
Painful how?
The three dots hover while Martina types.
It’s not just a listing. You have to search by combinations of at least three letters. Then I’m typing names of the female students who come up into Google and running an image search to see if any match Ida’s. Who’s obviously not really Ida.
Crap, I’m sorry.
Did you know A names are the most common? I might switch to U or X soon.
There must be computers at the library, right? I could go after work tomorrow and help.
Library closes at 4, but thanks. I sent a couple of the Ida photos to my friend’s sister. She’s a sophomore at Yale. She didn’t recognize her, but she’ll ask around discreetly.
Are you sure Ida’s a Yale student?
No. But it’s our most likely bet. She’s definitely not from around here, and where else was Caden spending all his time?
She could be a local from New Haven.
Let’s hope she’s not. Then we’re really screwed. I’ve already checked out her Gmail account. It’s registered to Ida B. Wells, naturally. So, dead end there.
Right. Thanks, Martina.
Sure, I’ll keep you posted.
I cross the lawn to the pool house and step inside. My shoulders unclench the moment the door slides shut behind me. I didn’t realize how tense I was. I flop down on my bed and try to make sense of tonight. The glassed-in pool is part of Zoe’s house. That was probably Zoe’s house I was standing in front of the other night. It was on a street called Crescent Circle, but I can’t remember the exact address. I should have written it down.
I grab my phone. It only takes a minute of searching online to confirm my suspicions: Forty-Five Crescent Circle belongs to George and Joan Spanos.
Maybe I saw the pool in a magazine spread, but I seriously doubt it. It was a memory. Somehow, I’ve been there before.
With Zoe.
22 THEN
July
Herron Mills, NY
“THREE CALLS IN two weeks? Is something wrong?”
I can hear myself inwardly groan. I can’t win. I’m either calling my mom not enough or too much. But today’s call isn’t just a mother-daughter check-in. Today’s call has a specific purpose.
“This a bad time?” I ask.
“Of course not, sweetie. What’s up?”
“I need to ask you about Herron Mills.”
There’s a long pause on Mom’s end of the line.
“There are these things I remember,” I press on. “Like, the first week I was out here, I could swear I’d been to this exact beach before. It’s not like the city beaches; it’s narrow but really nice? And there’s an ice-cream shop with an elaborate chalkboard menu.” As I tick off my eerie moments of nostalgia, even I have to admit, they sound a little thin.
“Anna.”
“And I remembered this glassed-in pool. …”
“Anna,” Mom repeats. “That sounds a lot like Stone Harbor.”
I stop. “Where?”
“Stone Harbor? It’s on the Jersey shore. When your dad and I were together, we used to take you on trips there in the summer. There was a really nice beach. And you loved the ice-cream shop. The hotel where we stayed, it had an indoor pool.”
“With vines and stuff?” My heart sinks a little in my chest.
“There were planters, yes. Lots of vines and flowers. You called it ‘the tropical rain forest’; I don’t know how you even knew what a rain forest looked like.” My heart sinks a little deeper.
“And we never came here? To Herron Mills?”
Mom’s snort is so loud I almost pull the phone away from my ear.
“To the Hamptons? Lord, no. Your father was far too cheap for that.”
* * *
Paisley and I spend Tuesday morning at Parrish Lake, our second trip there since Caden clued me in to its shade. In the afternoon, I promise Paisley ice cream if she’ll hang out with me at the library for a couple hours. Turns out, she loves the children’s room, so it’s a win-win.
I spend the first few minutes poking around the Yale student directory, randomly searching the Rs, figuring Martina probably hasn’t gotten that far in the alphabet yet. She was right; it’s a giant pain. You have to enter combinations of at least three letters to