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the town’s residents. It was one of Massachusetts’s highest-security prisons—for the state’s worst offenders.
    I didn’t understand, either. “He was seventeen when he was arrested. He should have gone to juvie or even been sentenced to just probation.”
    “Something’s not adding up.” Sean sat in front of my computer, typed. A second later the screen was filled with hits on Tristan Rourke.
    Preston leaned in close, reading over my shoulder. “Attempted murder?”
    I scanned an archived article from the Boston Globe. Tristan had been arrested at seventeen for attempting to strangle his foster father with a coat hanger. Because of Tristan’s prior history (he apparently had a knack for stealing) and lack of remorse, he’d been tried as an adult. The trial had been brief, and Tristan was found guilty and sentenced to five years in prison.
    “Check the Herald. ” I preferred its gossipy nature.
    We pored over archived articles. The pieces featured quotes from Rourke’s foster parents, Anthony and Mary Ellen Spero, and from previous foster kids of the family. The gist of the case was that after Tristan had been bailed out of juvie (by Mrs. Spero) and when Mr. Spero had told him about Meaghan’s suicide attempt—but not where she was or how she was doing—Tristan had gone ballistic.
    The cops were called, Tristan was arrested on new charges, and the judge threw the book at him to teach him a lesson.
    “I think I might have gone apeshit, too,” Preston said. “It doesn’t seem like anyone took into account the kids’ feelings for each other.”
    I completely agreed with Preston—for a change. A first love was imprinted in a heart forever because of its power. It seemed cruel and unusual to keep Tristan in the dark regarding Meaghan’s condition or whereabouts.
    As Preston started humming Bruce Springsteen’s “Fire,” Sean typed in the Web address for the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He searched the inmate locator for Tristan Rourke.
    I tapped the screen. “He was let out three years ago. Time served.”
    “He’s twenty-five years old now. Plenty of time to build an identity,” Sean said.
    I followed his reasoning. If Tristan had been released from prison recently, then he wouldn’t own property or have credit cards or even a permanent address. Finding him would be incredibly difficult. But since he’d been out for a while, there would be a trail.
    “This story is more Romeo and Juliet than Meaghan let on,” Preston said, taking notes.
    Sean said to me, “Someone I know would wax poetic about true love knowing no bounds. Not distance, or money, or time. That reuniting these two is what love is all about.”
    “But you?” I asked, amused by his tone. He wasn’t quite mocking me, but there had been a teasing lilt.
    “I say we need to be careful with this case.”
    The pinch of foreboding turned to a nudge. This case wasn’t what I’d imagined when Lost Loves was created. But I still wanted to help. My Love Conquers All syndrome was hard at work. “Maybe Tristan is now an upstanding citizen. We shouldn’t judge so soon.”
    “Right, right,” Preston intoned. “Because zebras often change their stripes.”
    I noticed that Sean’s shoulders stiffened and his superhero jaw jutted, but he didn’t say anything. After a second, he relaxed and it was as though he’d never tensed at all. Preston apparently hadn’t even noticed, since she was so busy fussing with her heel. Sean caught me watching him and looked away.
    “What’s with you and the sayings?” I asked her, wondering at his reaction.
    “I don’t know! Maybe I’m spending too much time with your grandmother.”
    Hear, hear! I’d second that. “Maybe you should take some time off?” That way she might not pursue her line of questioning about the curse.
    Her eyebrows snapped downward. “No.”
    It had been worth a try.
    “Tristan Rourke shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Sean said. “I’ll do a search this