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I freeze, a forkful of smoked salmon poised halfway to my mouth.
“We know you’ve seen it,” Theo says. “We watched the footage this morning.”
“To be completely frank, we were hoping it wouldn’t be noticed,” Franny adds. “But now that it has, I do hope you’ll give us the chance to explain why it’s there.”
I set my fork on my plate. Any appetite I might have had is gone. “I’d certainly appreciate one. I didn’t see any others around the camp.”
“That’s because it’s the only one, dear,” Franny says.
“How long has it been there?”
“Since last evening,” Theo says. “Ben installed it during the campfire.”
At first, the name is unfamiliar to me. Then I remember the groundskeeper. No wonder he was acting so strangely when gathering up those easels.
“Why did he put it there?”
“To keep an eye on Dogwood, of course,” Franny says.
Since we’re on the topic of surveillance, I’m tempted to tell her that someone might have watched me take a shower this morning. I don’t because I’m not entirely sure there was. It would also require me to reveal just how I know about the crack in the shower wall. That’s a conversation I’d like to avoid at all costs.
Instead, I say, “That doesn’t answer my question.”
But it does, actually. Only the answer is an unspoken one, left for me to infer on my own. The camera is trained on Dogwood because I’m staying there. That’s why it was installed last night. They didn’t know it was the cabin I’d be occupying until after I’d arrived.
Franny looks at me from across the table, her head tilted, concern glowing in her green eyes. “You’re upset. And probably offended. I can’t say I blame you. We should have told you immediately.”
The slight throb of a headache presses against my temples. I chalk it up to confusion and too much hastily swallowed prosecco on an empty stomach. But Franny is right. Iamupset and offended.
“You still haven’t told me why it’s there,” I say. “Are you spying on me?”
“That’s putting it a bit harshly.Spying.” Franny smacks her lips in distaste, as if just saying the word has soured her tongue. She takes a tiny sip of prosecco to wash it away. “I like to think it’s there for your own protection.”
“From what?”
“Yourself.”
It’s Theo who answers. Hearing it from him forces a huff of surprise from my lungs.
“Back when I was getting ready to reopen the camp, we did background checks on everyone staying here for the summer,” Franny says, exhibiting more gentleness than her son. “I didn’tthink it was necessary, but my lawyers insisted on it. Instructors. Kitchen staff. Even the campers. We found nothing to be concerned about. Except with you.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, when really I do. I know what’s coming next.
A pained expression crosses Franny’s face. It strikes me as exaggerated and not entirely sincere. Like she wants me to know just how much it hurts to utter whatever she’s about to say.
“We know, Emma,” she tells me. “We know what happened to you after you left Camp Nightingale.”
14
I don’t talk about it.
Not even with Marc.
The only other people who know what happened are my parents, who are all too happy to avoid discussing those horrible six months when I was fourteen.
I was still in school when it began. A gangly freshman desperately trying to fit in with all the other prep school girls. It wasn’t easy. Not after what had happened that summer. Everyone knew about the disappearance at Camp Nightingale, giving me the kind of notoriety no one wanted anything to do with. My friends started pulling away from me. Even Heather and Marissa. My life became a form of solitary confinement. Weekends spent in my room. Cafeteria lunches consumed alone.
Just when it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse, I saw the girls and everything truly went to hell.