‌“What is that?” Mason asks when I plop the cardboard box between him and Nadia during lunch period on Monday.‌

“A diorama,” I say, spinning it so he can see. “From fifth grade. Remember? Mr. Hassan had us recreate a scene from a book with the people we’d most like to go on an adventure with. I picked The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and you guys.”

“Oh my gosh,” Nadia says, laughing as she peers into the display. “You kept this?”

“I did. You wouldn’t believe how much Saint Ambrose stuff is in my attic.” I dug the diorama out of a box yesterday after I got back from New Hampshire, determined to use some of my still-buzzing energy for good instead of chaos.

“Look at how cute I am,” Mason says, examining the mini-Mason. “My hair is so bouncy.” Then his brow furrows. “Wait. Weren’t Katie Christo and Spencer Okada in here too?”

“Yeah, but Spencer went missing at some point, and I ripped Katie out in eighth grade after she started calling me ‘Trippstalker,’ ” I say. Then I

reach into my backpack and pull out two Tupperware containers. I put the one with a red cover in front of Nadia, and the blue cover in front of Mason. “And these are chocolate-chip cookies. Gluten-free for you, Nadia. They have a normal amount of salt.”

“Okay,” Mason says, looking puzzled. “Good to know.”

Nadia picks up her Tupperware container. “What’s all this for, Brynn?” “An apology,” I say. “I know I’m not the most thoughtful person, but I really do value your friendship. I always have. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about my internship—which I quit, by the way—and I hope you can forgive

me.”

“Aw, look at you. So much personal growth.” Mason gives me a one- armed hug and accidentally detaches mini-Mason from the bottom of the diorama. “Oops. Can I hang on to this, though? I like my sweater vest.”

“You’re all yours,” I say with a hopeful look toward Nadia.

A smile tugs at her lips. “If I tell you we stopped being mad a week ago, can we still keep the cookies?”

“Yes,” I say, as one of the biggest knots in my stomach untangles. “Does this mean we can all still go to the Winter Dance together?”

Nadia rolls her eyes. “We were always going. You’re so dramatic.

Why’d you quit the internship, though?”

Ugh. As much as I’d love to be totally straightforward, I can’t tell her that without getting into a whole lot of stuff that I promised Tripp I wouldn’t. “Long story,” I say. “By the way, I have a date for the dance now. Sort of.”

Mason’s brows shoot up. “Does that have anything to do with the fact that Tripp Talbot has finally resurfaced in the hallowed halls of Saint Ambrose?”

“It may,” I say. “I tracked him down.” A couple of trays rattle beside us as more people join the table, and I shift my diorama to the side to make room.

“Tracked him down?” Nadia repeats. I put a finger to my lips as one of our new seatmates shoots us a quizzical look.

“It’s too bad you got rid of Katie, really,” Mason says, tucking his diorama self into the front pocket of his backpack. “She was an oracle.”

—

Two days later I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed after school, organizing my notes on the Mr. Larkin case. I’m feeling much calmer than I was after meeting maybe-Dexter, to the point where I almost think I overreacted. Almost. Not enough to call the Last Chance Pawnshop and confirm that he works there, though.

Ellie comes in and flops down dramatically beside me, flinging an arm across her face. “Mom’s going to be a chaperone for the dance on Saturday,” she moans.

“What?” I ask, eyes on my laptop.

“They were short, so the PTA put out a call, and she answered,” Ellie says, and sighs. “So awkward.”

“Really?” I ask, giving her my full attention. My parents and Uncle Nick have been slower than Tripp and my friends to accept my apologies, but maybe this is a sign that Mom, at least, is thawing. “That’s great. What did she say?”

Ellie makes a face. “Um, that she’s going? It wasn’t exactly a long conversation. I cut it short so I could come here to commiserate, but you’ve let me down with your weirdly chipper attitude.” She raises herself on one elbow to peer at my laptop. “What’s so interesting?”

I pull up the picture of eighteen-year-old Lila Robbins again. “Does this look like Ms. Delgado to you? Even a little bit?”

Ellie rolls over to look at my screen. “She looks like somebody,” she says finally. “But like a lot of somebodies. She has one of those faces. Could be Ms. Delgado, I guess, but I haven’t seen her in a while. Have you told Carly about all this?”

“No,” I say. “She wants to get together next week, but it’s complicated. I was never supposed to see the Union Leader article, remember? Plus, Tripp’s not ready to talk about his dad taking the money, but if he doesn’t

talk about that, then he also can’t talk about the fact that he doesn’t actually know what Shane and Charlotte might have done to Mr. Larkin before he got there.” I explained the whole story to Ellie—after getting Tripp’s permission—because she already knew so much that I was afraid I’d let something slip. Besides, I told him, he could think of it as practice: another person knows the truth, and the world doesn’t end. Ellie took everything in stride, like she always does, and she’s been helping me brainstorm ever since.

“A tangled web,” Ellie says.

“Indeed,” I sigh, closing the cover of my laptop.

“Would it be helpful to know who’s been vandalizing Mr. Larkin’s picture?” Ellie asks, tugging at the end of her braid.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “But Ms. Kelso’s pretty much given up on that.

She’s not even putting up committee posters anymore.”

“Hmm,” Ellie says. Her eyes glint in a way I don’t like, but before I can ask her what she’s talking about, she springs to her feet and heads for my dresser. “Do you have any crosses or, like, rosaries?” she asks. “I’m going for an eighties Madonna theme at the dance.”

“I do not,” I say, reaching once again for my laptop. “Just chunky jewelry, then?”

“Take whatever you can find,” I say, navigating to Lila Robbins’s senior class picture again. Closing it and reopening it has become something of a habit, because every time I do, I hope that this will be the moment—the moment when I can say with 100 percent certainty that she’s Shane’s mother. But certainty keeps eluding me, even though, as I study her face once again, I’m more positive than ever that I know her.

I just don’t know how.