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It was my last chance to tell the truth.
Instead, I climbed into the Volvo’s back seat and said, “Please, Dad. Just go.”
As my father started to drive away, the Lodge door gaped open yet again. This time, Chet ran out, his face tear-stained, legs a blur. He sprinted to the arts and crafts building, calling out Theo’s name. Lottie rushed to intercept him and dragged him back to the Lodge, waving to my father to leave before we saw anything else.
Yet I continued to watch, turning around in my seat so I could look out the back window. I kept on looking as Lottie, Chet, and the quiet remains of Camp Nightingale faded from view.
32
When Becca leaves, I remain curled up in my bunk, Krystal’s bear in my arms, trying to think of what to do about Lottie. Tell someone else, obviously. But my options are few. Detective Flynn doesn’t trust me. I don’t trust Franny. And even Theo would have a hard time believing my word over the word of the woman who’s been with his family for decades.
I stare out the window, weighing my options while watching the evening sky succumb to thick darkness. The search crew in the helicopter has started using a spotlight, sweeping it across the water. When it rumbles overhead every fifteen minutes or so, the light brightens the trees outside the cabin window.
I’m watching the play of the light in the leaves when there’s another knock on the door. It opens a second later, revealing Mindy bearing a tray from the cafeteria.
“I brought dinner,” she announces.
What sits on the tray definitely isn’t cafeteria food. This is dinner straight from the Lodge. Filet mignon still swirling with steam and roasted potatoes seasoned with rosemary. Their scents fill the cabin, making it smell like Thanksgiving.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, even though under normal circumstances, I’d already be devouring the steak. Especially considering how stress and shitty cafeteria food have conspired to keep me from consuming, well, almost anything since I arrived. But I can’t evenlook at the food, let alone eat it. Anxiety has knotted my stomach so tight I worry it might never unravel.
“I also brought wine,” Mindy says, holding up a bottle of pinot noir.
“That I’ll take.”
“I get half,” Mindy says. “I’m telling you, it’s been a day. The campers are terrified, and the rest of us are at our wit’s end trying to keep them calm and occupied.”
She sets the tray on the hickory trunk that was once Allison’s and is now Sasha’s. Maybe. Or maybe it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. It’s like Krystal’s teddy bear—temporarily ownerless.
From the way Mindy simply plucks the cork from the wine, I can tell the bottle had been opened back in the Lodge. Probably to prevent me from having access to a corkscrew. On the tray, I see that the fork and knife are plastic. When Mindy pours the wine, it’s into plastic cups. It brings back memories of the mental hospital, where no sharp objects were allowed.
“Cheers,” Mindy says as she hands me a cup and taps it with her own. “Drink up.”
That I do, draining the entire cup before coming up for air and asking, “Why the special treatment?”
Mindy sits on the edge of Krystal’s bed, facing me. “It was Franny’s idea. She said you deserved something nice, considering all the stress you’ve been under. It’s been a hard day for all of us, but you especially.”
“I’m assuming there’s an ulterior motive.”
“I think she also thought it might be a good idea for us to share this wine and get comfortable with each other, seeing how I’ve been ordered to spend the night here.”
“Why?” I ask.
“To keep an eye on you, I guess.”
There’s no need for her to elaborate. No one trusts me. Not when Sasha, Krystal, and Miranda remain missing. I’m still under suspicion until they’re found.Ifthey’re found. Hence the flimsy knife andplastic cup, into which I pour more wine. Mindy watches as I fill it to the brim.
“The way I see it, we have two choices here,” I say. “We can either ignore each other and sit in silence. Or we could chat.”
“The second one,” Mindy says. “I hate too much quiet.”
It’s exactly the answer I expected. Which is the reason I gave her the choice—to make it feel like it was her idea to gossip.
“How’s the mood in the Lodge?” I ask. “Is everyone handling it well?”
“Of course not. They’re worried sick. Especially Franny.”
“What about Lottie?” I say. “She always struck me as a cool customer. I bet that’s good in a time of crisis.”