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Ben gives him a hard stare. In his eyes burns what can only be described as barely concealed disgust.
“Don’t you dare judge me,Theodore,” he says, spitting out the name like something that’s left a bad taste in his mouth. “You think you’re better than me? Just because some rich woman plucked you out of an orphanage? That just means you’re lucky.”
The color drains from Theo’s face. I can’t tell if it’s because ofshock or anger. He opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by a noise rising suddenly from outside. Someone shouting. The voice echoes off the water.
“I see something!”
Theo turns to me, panicked. “That’s Chet.”
We rush out of the arts and crafts building, Detective Flynn in the lead, surprisingly quick on his feet. At the mess hall, a bunch of girls are pushing out of the door, clutching one another. Several of them cry out in distress, even though no one knows what’s going on. No one but Chet, who stands at the lake’s edge, pointing to something in the water.
A canoe.
Unmoored. Adrift.
It bobs a hundred yards from shore at a sideways angle, making it clear no one is guiding it.
I race into the lake, marching high-kneed until the water reaches my thighs. I then fall forward, swimming now, taking quick, forceful strokes toward the errant canoe. Behind me, others do the same thing. Theo and Chet. Glimpses of them flash over my shoulder whenever I pause to take a breath.
I’m first to the canoe, followed soon after by Chet, then Theo. We each grip the edge of the boat with one hand and start the swim ashore with the other. It’s an awkward, labored trip. My wet fingers keep slipping from the canoe’s edge and our strokes are out of sync, making the boat jerk from side to side as we swim.
Once in shallow water, the three of us stand and drag the canoe to shore. A crowd has gathered by then. Detective Flynn and Ben Schumacher. Most of the campers, kept at bay by counselors. At the Lodge, Franny, Lottie, and Mindy watch from the back deck. I risk a glance inside the canoe, and my legs grow weak.
The boat is empty.
No oars. No life vests. Certainly no people.
The only thing inside is a pair of glasses, twisted like a wrung-out washcloth, one of the lenses spiderwebbed with cracks.
Flynn uses a handkerchief to lift it from the canoe. “Does anyone recognize these?”
I stare at the red frames, somehow still standing, even though the sight of them should have sent me tumbling again into unconsciousness. I even manage to nod.
“Sasha,” I say, my voice weak. “They belong to Sasha.”
31
Back in Dogwood, I lay in the bottom bunk, trying to keep it together. So far, I’m doing a shitty job. After the canoe was found, I went to the latrine and threw up. I then spent a half hour crying in the shower before changing into dry clothes. Now I hold Krystal’s matted-fur teddy bear as Detective Flynn graces me with another disbelieving stare.
“That’s an interesting thing you did back there,” he says. “Swimming out to the canoe like that.”
“You would have preferred I let it float away?”
Flynn remains standing in the center of the room. Some kind of power play, I assume. Letting me know that he’s fully in charge here.
“I would have preferred for you to leave it alone and let the police retrieve it. It’s evidence. Now it’s been tainted by three additional people.”
“Sorry,” I say, only because it’s what he obviously wants to hear.
“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Or maybe you did it on purpose. Covering up fingerprints or trace evidence you’d previously left behind.”
Flynn pauses, waiting for I don’t know what. A confession? A vehement denial? Instead, I say, “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Then please explain this.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clear plastic bag. Inside is a curl of silver chain on which hang three pewter birds.
My charm bracelet.