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Working with vigor, Opal Wells moved through her house, vacuum thrumming.

Dex had taken Junie and Jud to his friend’s ranch. The kids wanted to see his horses.

Pushing and pulling the wand, Opal chuckled at having the house to herself. This was how she spent her alone time. Oh well. Maybe she’d have tea and get back to her book later. For now, she attacked every room, every corner, in a full-on cleanse.

When she got to dusting their big screen TV, she thought of Carrie. Opal wished she could have joined Lacey and Grace at Carrie’s house a while ago, but she’d had to take Junie to the dentist. That was the day the reporter from the Chron was live on network news talking about the case.

Opal was concerned for Carrie, especially after the hurtful fallout online. Carrie didn’t deserve it. She was a good person, and that’s what Opal had told police when the murders first happened. She told them how Carrie had defended Lanna in the cafeteria when Abby and Erin and the other seniors had picked on her.

Carrie was a hero.

That’s what Opal had told Denise from the Chronicle , too, when she interviewed her, right here in her living room, for her big story. No way in a million years should the detectives have ever suspected Carrie. The idea that something happened at the Halloween party with Carrie, Abby and Erin, that Carrie had some kind of grudge against them, was just plain dumb.

Besides, Donnie Ray Hyde was the killer.

Progressing through her house, Opal began straightening closets. Setting aside clothes for donation, she thought of the Benjamin Franklin project she and Carrie did. One of her fondest memories. Opal returned to it the way some people relived glorious moments in school sports. The Franklin project was Opal’s game-winning touchdown. Her only A-plus that year.

At the time, Opal’s mother, the family archivist-hoarder, was so proud, she took charge of it. “I’ll keep this treasure in a safe place, sweetheart.” Opal had wanted to show it to the detectives when they questioned her in high school, but her mother had misplaced it. As the years went by, it never reappeared. The other day when the reporter was here, Opal wondered if it might be in a closet somewhere, but her search was futile. Maybe it had been stored with her late mother’s things, most of which had been donated or tossed.

Or maybe it was just lost.

Opal went to the big closet in her family’s spare room, opening the doors to the nightmare that resided there. It was jammed with some of her mother’s things, along with long-forgotten toys, games, discarded appliances— Why’re we keeping this blender? —and broken tools, among other items.

Shaking her head, Opal created a marshaling area to put in piles for keeping, giving away or throwing out. She began sifting through puzzles, books, records and photo albums. The old records could be worth something to collectors. She’d check. Either way, they were going. The puzzles could be donated. There were at least a dozen photo albums filled with images of generations of relatives. She’d keep them. The laminated pages crackled. Opal looked; some photos were from the early 1900s. Her ancestors stared from them like unhappy ghosts she’d disturbed.

Opal noticed one album seemed thicker. A slim book had been slivered inside. It had an old-style font. Recognition dawned at the words on the cover: Benjamin Franklin .

This is it!

Warm memories brought her back to Mr. Fuentes, their history teacher, guiding the class on the assignment: pair up with a classmate and profile a figure in American history. The project could be in any format—video, slideshow, dramatic recording, a book, whatever they chose.

Carrie turned to Opal: “Want to work together?”

“Yes!”

They selected Franklin because no one had picked him yet. They decided to do a book and worked hard on it, researching, writing and laying it out with stylized script, photos and sketches they drew. They went to a printshop, run by a friend of Opal’s dad, to get it bound.

It was so good.

Opal opened the book, finding Mr. Fuentes’s folded note. Carrie, Opal: This is beautiful. So well done. Admirable work! A+

Going through it, Opal traced her fingers over all they’d written about Franklin: his biography, his achievements as a statesman, scientist, inventor, publisher. She smiled at the sticky notes she and Carrie had left on it after getting it graded, basking in it, commenting on what they liked: This was a good sketch you made, Opal ; or what they’d missed: Oops, a typo!

She got to their section on Franklin’s work with Poor Richard’s Almanack and their pages of his witty sayings. She really liked them and reread some.

Necessity never made a good bargain.

He that lives on hope will die fasting.

Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

There were so many.

Recalling how she and Carrie would meet after class to work on their project, which was around the time of the incident in the cafeteria, Opal read more, smiling.

A penny saved is a penny earned.

God helps those that help themselves.

Lost time is never found again.

The smile melted from her face as she paused at one quote. Beside it was a sticky note from Carrie.

It said: I love this one!

Opal remembered how the note was placed—how Carrie had fixed it there after the cafeteria incident with Abby and Erin, just before the big Halloween dance and the murders.

Oh, my God. Here it is after all this time .

Opal put her hand over her mouth, and tears came as she read Carrie’s favorite quote.

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.