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“Then why are you asking me about it?”
Flynn pretends not to hear the question and plows ahead. “Back then, a fellow camper said she heard you and one of the girls who vanished fighting earlier that night.”
Becca. Of course she told the police about what she’d heard. But I can’t be too mad at her for that. I would have done the same thing if the roles had been reversed.
“It was an argument,” I say weakly. “Not a fight.”
“What was this argument about?”
“I honestly can’t remember,” I say, when of course I can. Me screaming at Vivian about Theo. Just a stupid girl fighting over a stupid boy.
“As you mentioned, none of those girls were seen or heard from again,” Flynn says. “Why do you think that is?”
“I’m not an expert on disappearances.”
“Yet you’re hesitant to think this current set of missing girls ran away.”
“Because I know them,” I say. “They wouldn’t do something like that.”
“And what about the girls who went missing fifteen years ago? You knew them, too.”
“I did.”
“You knew them well enough to get angry at them.”
“Oneof them.”
I reach for the coffee and take another gulp, this time to steel myself.
“Maybe even violently angry.”
Flynn catches me mid-sip. The coffee stops halfway down my throat, choking me. I let out a series of short, rough coughs. Coffee and spittle fling from my mouth.
“What are you implying?” I say between coughs.
“I’m just being thorough, Miss Davis.”
“Maybe you should start searching for Miranda, Krystal, and Sasha instead. Be thorough with that.”
I take another look out the window. The troopers are still there, milling outside the mess hall. It’s as if they’re guarding the place. Trying to keep someone out.
Or someone in.
A grim understanding settles over me. I now know the reason no one seems to be searching for the girls. Why Detective Flynn keeps focusing on my relationships with all of them. I should have seen it coming. I should have realized it the moment I woke up and Miranda, Sasha, and Krystal were gone.
I’m a suspect.
Theonlysuspect.
“I didn’t touch those girls. Then or now.”
“You have to admit, it’s an awfully big coincidence,” Flynn says. “Fifteen years ago, all the girls from your cabin vanished in the night. All of them but you. Now here we are, with all the girls from your cabin once again vanishing in the night. All of them but you.”
“I was thirteen the first time it happened. What kind of violence do you think a thirteen-year-old girl is capable of?”
“I have a daughter that age,” Flynn says. “You’d be surprised.”
“And what about now?” I say, wincing at both the hysterical pitch of my voice and the headache that accompanies it. “I’m an artist. I’m here to teach girls how to paint. I have absolutely no reason to hurt anyone.”