CHAPTER TWENTY

Jenna stared with fascination at the old yearbook that Frank slid across the table toward her. She flipped it open and immediately looked up Lisa Donovan in the index, then turned to a picture of her. Sure enough, it was the same young woman she’d seen in her dream. She shuddered at the thought of the fate this innocent-looking girl would suffer soon after the taking of this picture.

Then she thumbed through more pages, curiosity tugging at her. Each turn revealed familiar faces captured in their adolescence—faces she now knew to be lined with experience and shaped by the passage of time. It was a peculiar sensation, witnessing the raw beginnings of individuals who had since woven themselves into the fabric of Trentville’s community.

But was a killer somewhere among these images, and perhaps victims, too?

“Let’s get started,” Frank said.

They began with the underclassmen, searching systematically for the initials SV and NS among youthful faces sporting the styles of a bygone era. Jenna’s finger traced a line down the index until it halted at Nina Sturgeon, then shifted across to Sandra Vickery. A few entries down, Samuel Vaughn’s name appeared, his picture showing a lanky boy with hair that flopped carelessly over one eye.

“None of these ring a bell in relation to Lisa Donovan or the case,” Frank muttered, his voice tinged with frustration as he leaned over to peer at the names. His gray eyes squinted slightly as if trying to dredge up a connection from the depths of his memory.

Jenna continued to turn the pages, the paper emitting a soft shush as they progressed to the seniors. There, among the confident poses of impending graduates, were Ned Solomon and Naomi Scott. She studied the images: Ned, with a half-smirk, leaning against a prop tree, and Naomi, her smile serene, framed by curtains of straight hair.

“Any recollections?” she asked, glancing at Frank. His brow furrowed in concentration, but after a moment, he shook his head.

“Nothing concrete. Could be any one of them or none at all.”

“It’s strange,” Jenna murmured. “Seeing all these younger versions of people I still know.” There was Stuart Sheely, with his slicked-back hair, his gaze already sharp with the acumen that would one day sell second-hand cars. And Cindy Brooks, whose smile in the yearbook photo had not yet assumed the diplomatic curve it wore on city council.

“Time marches on,” Frank said, his voice a low rumble. He pulled back slightly, giving Jenna space to continue her examination. “But people...they don’t always change as much as you’d think.”

“Or sometimes more than you can imagine,” Jenna added thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on a picture of a boy she barely recognized as the current owner of the local hardware store.

“Time’s kinder to some people than others,” Jake commented, leaning closer to study faces from a time long before he’d become part of Trentville’s story.

Jenna’s eyes darted to Jake. There was a sense of detachment about him, as if he were observing a private world to which he’d never belong. She could feel a subtle tension and wondered if this would deepen the invisible chasm between them.

“Mostly just surface changes,” she replied. “The essence remains.”

Her eyes paused on the younger face of one of her favorite teachers—William Hartley, a shock of black hair, a mischievous sparkle that belied the stoic educator she’d admired. She’d forgotten that he and Frank had been in school together. It was surreal, seeing him with that hint of youthful rebellion, so far removed from the man who’d taught her about the Civil War with solemn reverence.

“Alright, we can’t get sidetracked,” Frank remarked, his voice drawing them back to the present. “SV and NS aren’t panning out. We’ve looked at everybody who had those initials. Let’s take a different approach. Suggestions?”

“Ruth mentioned Lisa might’ve had a secret boyfriend,” Jenna reminded them, breaking the rhythm of flipped. “If they were involved, maybe there’s some clue about it somewhere in these pages.”

“Let’s go through the clubs, activities. Something might pop,” Jake suggested.

“It’s worth a try,” Jenna agreed, glad that he was participating in their search. She flipped to a section of the book dedicated to extracurriculars, searching for a connection, a hint, anything that might offer them a shred of evidence to go on.

Jenna watched as page after page turned, each filled with youthful faces frozen in time. When they stumbled upon a section showcasing the debate club, Frank paused, and his usually stoic face softened into a wistful smile.

“Look at this,” he said, tapping a black and white photograph. There stood a younger Frank Doyle, unmistakably him, yet so different—more hair and an eagerness in his eyes that age had mellowed. He was surrounded by fellow debaters, all caught mid-argument, a moment of passionate exchange preserved on glossy paper.

Jenna leaned closer, intrigued by this slice of Frank’s past. She knew of his skills, but seeing him there among peers, a teenager with the world before him, was oddly disarming. It was a Frank she never knew, one that existed before life had marked his features with heavy lines.

“Debate champion three years running,” Frank murmured, a hint of pride in his voice. “We were unbeatable back then.”

“Looks like you enjoyed it,” Jenna observed.

“More than I let on,” he admitted, before turning more pages. “Here’s me in chess club,” he announced, “And the track team.”

“Multitalented,” Jenna commented, a half-smile playing on her lips. The yearbook was revealing more layers to Frank, adding depth to the mentor she respected.

“Helped keep me out of trouble,” Frank said, closing that chapter with another turn of the page.

Jenna’s gaze locked onto a photograph that seemed out of place among the images of clubs and sports teams. It was a band photo, and the lead guitarist, standing rebelliously in front, was unmistakable—another photo of Bill Hartley that bore the marks of a wild youth.

“It says he was in a band called Rigor Mortis,” Jenna said, pointing to the caption beneath the photo. Her voice carried a note of disbelief; the contrast between the man in the picture and the teacher she knew was jarring.

“Bill always had a flair for dramatics,” Frank mused, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jenna had always seen Mr. Hartley as an unwavering pillar of knowledge. But here he was in a leather jacket, an electric guitar slung carelessly over his shoulder. His eyes bore the wild spark of defiance, dark kohl rimming them with an aggression that matched his stance. Spiked hair, bleached and defiant against convention, towered above a sneer that seemed to challenge the very act of being photographed. Safety pins and studs adorned his leather jacket, a chaotic tapestry of rebellion so unlike the buttoned-up history teacher Jenna had known. His fingers curled around the guitar’s neck with apparent ownership, as though it were an extension of his own rebellious spirit.

“So Mr. Hartley was a punk rocker?” Jake asked.

Frank chuckled, “Bill was something else back then. A real firecracker.” He shook his head. “We used to say he was on a one-way trip to nowhere fast.”

Jenna could hardly imagine Mr. Hartley as anything other than the collected educator who guided her through the nuances of history. It seemed truly weird seeing someone she respected in such a drastically different light.

“‘Most likely to die young,’” Frank added with a dry tone as he gazed at the photo. “That’s what they said about him. He lived like he was proving them right, every day.”

“Really took that ‘live fast, die young’ motto to heart, huh?” Jake asked.

“Exactly,” Frank agreed. “He’d quote Neil Young all the time, saying, ‘It’s better to burn out than to fade away.’ Like he wanted to blaze so bright he’d just disappear instead of growing old.”

“I guess every generation thinks they’ve invented rebellion,” Jake commented.

“Right,” Frank responded. “Back then it was punk. Today, it’s whatever new form angst takes—’goth’ wasn’t a thing back then. I was never part of any of that tortured youth stuff. I guess some of us just watched from the sidelines.”

“Did you know him well back then?” Jenna asked.

“Bill and I? No, we ran in different circles,” Frank admitted. “I kept my nose clean, mostly. But it’s funny, isn’t it? How people can change. Or how they can hide who they really are.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Jenna thought aloud. “They never change at all, just learn to conceal it better.”

Her finger paused over the yearbook page, drawing a line under the caption as if to underline its significance. “‘Rigor Mortis performing ‘Sid Vicious Has Risen from the Grave,’“ she read out loud, her voice tinged with curiosity. The name Sid Vicious sparked only a dim recognition.

“Who?” Jake asked, clearly trying to remember.

“Lead bassist for the Sex Pistols,” Frank said, leaning back in his chair as he cradled his coffee mug. “Died young, drug overdose.”

“SV,” Jenna murmured, the initials resonating with her as she tapped the yearbook photograph. “Sid Vicious.”

Frank’s reaction was immediate, his startled gaze meeting Jenna’s. “You think there might be a connection?”

“Maybe he was Lisa’s secret boyfriend,” Jake chimed in. “Lisa might’ve kept it quiet, considering her dad. You know how strict he supposedly was.”

“Seems too far-fetched,” Frank countered with a skeptical grunt, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand.

Yet Jenna’s intuition echoed louder than any skepticism could quell. She leaned closer to the yearbook, her eyes tracing the contours of Bill Hartley’s youthful rebellion captured in black and white. Her mind, trained to seek patterns, refused to let go of the thread they had unwittingly tugged.

“Coincidences in our line of work are rarely just that,” Jenna stated flatly, closing the yearbook with a determination that settled heavily in the room.

A flicker of memory sparked through her thoughts, illuminating a moment she had witnessed in Bill Hartley’s class. “There was this one time,” she murmured, “when Mr. Hartley seemed different from his usual self.”

She recalled his usual demeanor, a placid lake of patience and understanding.

“There was a girl named Lori McBurney,” she said. “She had long black hair that fell down her back like a waterfall. The only time I saw him behave … well, inappropriately was around her, and it happened just once. He leaned too close over her desk as he told her in an intense whisper that she reminded him of someone from his past. It made the whole classroom uncomfortable for a minute or so. But then the moment passed, and Mr. Hartley seemed himself again.”

“Reminded him?” Frank queried, catching the implication in Jenna’s tone.

“Of a girl he knew,” Jenna confirmed, her gaze returning to the yearbook. “That’s all he said, but Lori looked a lot like Amber and Lisa—same build, same long black hair. It seemed strange at the time, but a lot stranger now.

“Frank,” Jake said, “tell us more about Sid Vicious.”

Frank sighed, leaning back against the kitchen chair, which creaked under his weight. “Sid Vicious, eh? Well, he was a real icon of the punk scene back then.” He frowned as he dredged up history. “Most famous, though, for how it all ended. He and his girlfriend, they were a mess—drugs, booze, and all sorts of trouble.”

“Girlfriend?” Jake interjected, his interest piqued.

“Twenty years old, if I recall correctly,” Frank continued. “The story goes, she wound up dead, and Vicious might’ve done it in a drunken rage. Some say he confessed; others claim he couldn’t remember a thing. The case was never solved.” He shook his head, the unsolved mystery echoing the uncertainty they now faced.

“Never solved,” Jenna echoed softly. There was a symmetry to the ambiguity, a pattern that resonated with the enigma wrapped around Lisa Donovan’s own story. Jenna felt the edges of their investigation blurring into the fuzzy lines of the past, where secrets lay buried beneath layers of half-truths and faded memories.

Jenna’s fingers stalled on the edge of a brittle page, her gaze fixed on Frank as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. The silence in the room seemed to press against her eardrums as she awaited the name that might bridge the gap in their case.

“What was his girlfriend’s name?” Jake asked.

Frank paused to think for a moment before it came to him.

“Her name was Nancy Spungen.”

The revelation fell into the space between them like a dropped coin, echoing with significance. Jenna’s eyes darted to Jake, who mirrored her intensity. Frank’s brow furrowed, a slow understanding dawning across his weathered features. They all knew it was more than just a name — it was a potential key to a lock that had kept them confounded for too long.

SV and NS; Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. The connection was too poignant to ignore.

“Could that be what we’re looking for?” Jake breathed, voicing the collective thought.

“Maybe,” Jenna replied, flipping the yearbook shut with a decisive motion. “A punk rocker from Trentville High idolizing a doomed love story. Coincidences in criminal cases are rare gems.”

She stood up, her chair scraping back sharply against the linoleum floor. “Bill Hartley,” she said, not as a question but a declaration of their next move. “We need to talk to him.”