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“Are you going to charge with me something?”
“Not yet,” Flynn replies. “The girls haven’t been found, dead or alive. And a bracelet isn’t enough to charge you. At least not unless a lab analysis finds some of their DNA on it.”
“Then get the hell out of this cabin until you do.”
I don’t regret saying it, even though I know it makes me look even guiltier. It occurs to me that some cops would even take it as an admission of guilt. Flynn, however, merely raises his hands in a don’t-blame-me gesture and moves to the door.
“We’re done, for now,” he says. “But I’ll be watching you, Miss Davis.”
He won’t be the only one. Between the camera outside the cabin and Vivian at my window, I’ve gotten used to being watched.
When Detective Flynn leaves, his exit lets in the sound of police boats out on the lake. They arrived shortly after the discovery of the canoe. Meanwhile, the helicopter is still going, rattling the cabin with each pass.
I can’t remember if the helicopter fifteen years ago showed up the first day or the second. The boats and volunteer search party were the first. That I definitely remember. All those people wearing flimsy orange vests and grim expressions as they marched into the woods. All those boats crisscrossing the lake, giving up once Vivian’s sweatshirt was found in the forest. That’s when the dogs were brought in, on the second day. Each allowed to sniff a piece of clothing plucked from the girls’ trunks to absorb their scents. By then, Franny had already decided to close the camp. So as the dogs were barking their way around the lake, hysterical campers were hustled onto buses or pulled into SUVs with dazed parents behind the wheels.
I wasn’t so lucky. I had to spend another day here, for investigative purposes, I was told. Another twenty-four hours spent huddled in this very bunk, feeling pretty much the same way I do now.
The helicopter has just passed once again when I hear a knock on the cabin door.
“Come in,” I say, too spent with worry to open it myself.
A second later, Becca pokes her head into the cabin. A surprise, considering the tone of last night’s conversation. At first, I think she’s here to offer condolences. I turn away when she enters, just so I can avoid the half-pity, half-sorry look I’m certain she’ll give me. My gaze drifts instead to the camera in her hands.
“If you’re here to take more pictures, you can leave right now,” I say.
“Listen, I know you’re pissed I told that cop we got drunk last night. I’m sorry. I got freaked out by the whole situation and told the truth, not thinking it would make you look suspicious. If it’s any consolation, it makes me look suspicious, too.”
“As far as I know, all the girls in your cabin are present and accounted for.”
“I’m trying to help you, Emma.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I think you do,” Becca says. “You should hear what they’re saying about you out there. Everyone thinks you did it. That you snapped and made those girls disappear the same way Viv, Natalie, and Allison vanished.”
“Even you?”
Becca gives me a pointed nod. “Even me. No use lying at this point, right? But then I started examining some of the photos I took around camp this morning. Looking to see if I accidentally captured any clues about what might have happened.”
“I don’t need you playing detective for me,” I say.
“It’s better than the job you’ve been doing,” she remarks. “Which, by the way, everyone also knows about. You haven’t exactly been subtle with your sneaking around camp and asking questions. Casey even told me she saw you slip into the Lodge yesterday.”
Of course Camp Nightingale is just as gossipy now as it was fifteen years ago. Maybe even more so. God knows what thecounselors and campers have been saying about me. Probably that I’m obsessive and crazy and make bad choices. Guilty as charged.
“I wasn’t sneaking,” I say. “And I’m assuming you found something interesting or you wouldn’t be here.”
Becca sits on the floor next to my bunk and holds up the camera so I can see it. On the display screen is an image of me standing dumbly in Lake Midnight and Franny wading in after me. Once again, I’m reminded of how great a photographer Becca is. She captured the moment in all its awful clarity, right down to the water seeping into the hem of Franny’s nightgown.
Theo’s in the middle of the photo, standing in his boxers between the lake and the Lodge. The pale patchwork of scars on his chest pop in the morning light, visible to all. Yet I had missed them completely. I had other things on my mind.
Beyond Theo is the Lodge itself, its back deck occupied by Chet and Mindy. He’s in track shorts and a T-shirt. She’s in a surprisingly sensible cotton nightgown.
“Now here’s one from the reverse angle,” Becca says.
The next photo shows the full crowd of campers drawn to the water’s edge by my screams. The girls clutch one another, fear still etching itself onto their sleep-pinkened faces.
“I counted them,” Becca says. “Seventy-five campers, counselors, and instructors. Out of a potential eighty.”