I make a note of the order in which they depart, just in case I’ll need to paint them one day. I hate myself for thinking this way.
“This is five minutes later,” Chet says once the screen goes dark and he opens the next file.
I don’t need to look at the monitor to know what it shows. Me emerging from the cabin in bare feet and the T-shirt and boxer shorts I wore to bed the night before. I pause outside the door, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill. Then I walk away in the opposite direction of the girls, toward the latrine. Even though I know what to expect, the footage is a gut punch.
Five minutes. That’s how little time had passed between the girls leaving the cabin and my realizing they were gone.
Five fucking minutes.
I question every thought I had and every move I made this morning. If only I had awakened earlier. If only I hadn’t wasted so much time thinking of reasons for why they’d be gone. If only I had gone to the mess hall instead of the latrine.
In any of those scenarios, I might have spotted the girls retreating to wherever it was they went to. I might have been able to stop them.
Even worse is how guilty it makes me look. Stepping outside mere minutes after the girls departed. While it was a complete coincidence, it doesn’t appear that way. It looks intentional, like I was waiting to follow them at a discreet distance. It doesn’t matter that I went in the opposite direction. Because the next video—the final one from that highly trafficked predawn hour—shows me walking past Dogwood during my wander around the cabins. I stare at my image on the monitor, noticing the hard set of my jaw and the blankness in my eyes. I know it’s worry, but to others it might look like anger as I unwittingly followed the same path the girls had taken.
“I was looking for them,” I say, preempting any questions from the others. “It was right after I woke up and realized they were gone. I searched the latrine first, then looked around the cabins before heading to the other side of camp.”
“You’ve already mentioned that,” Detective Flynn says. “But, again, there’s no way to prove that. All this video does is confirm that you left the cabin not long after the girls did. And now no one can find them.”
“I didn’t do anything to those girls!”
I look to Chet, to Theo, to Franny, silently begging them to back me up, even though there’s no reason they should. I’m not surprised when, instead of coming to my defense, Franny says, “Normally, I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing this. Everyone has a right to privacy, especially regarding incidents in their past. But under these circumstances, I feel I must. Emma, please forgive me.”
She offers a look that’s half-apology, half-pity. I don’t want either. So I look away as Franny says, “Years ago, Miss Davis was under psychiatric care for an undisclosed mental illness.”
While she talks, I stare at the third monitor. The live feed from outside the cabin. Currently, the area is empty. No campers. No Mindy or Casey. Just the front door of Dogwood at that Hitchcockian angle.
“We discovered this during a background check,” Franny continues. “Against the advice of our attorneys, we invited her here for the summer. We didn’t think she was a threat to herself or the campers. Nonetheless, precautions were taken.”
Flynn, proving himself to be nobody’s fool, says, “Hence the camera.”
“Yes,” Franny says. “I just thought you should know. To show we’re doing everything we can to help in your search. I don’t mean to imply in any way whatsoever that I think Emma had something to do with this disappearance.”
Yet that’s exactly what she’s doing. I keep my gaze fixed on the monitor, unwilling to look away because it would mean facing Franny again. And I’m not sure I can do that.
On the screen, a girl edges into view, her back straight, her steps precise. She knows the camera is there. At first, I think it’s a camper, maybe sneaking out of a neighboring cabin to get another peek of the state troopers milling around the mess hall.
Then I see the blond hair, the white dress, the locket around her neck.
It’s Vivian.
Right there on the monitor.
I gasp in shock—a ragged, watery sound.
Chet’s the first to notice and says, “Emma? What’s wrong?”
My hand trembles as I point to the monitor. Vivian is still there. She looks directly into the camera and gives a coy smile. As if she knows I’m watching. She even waves to me.
“You see that, right?”
“See what?” It’s Theo this time, his brow creasing with doctor-like concern.
“Her,” I say. “In front of Dogwood.”
All of them turn to the monitor, crowding around it, blocking my view.
“There’s nothing there,” Theo says.
“Did you see one of the missing girls?” Flynn says.
“Vivian. I saw Vivian.”
I push between them, regaining my view of the live feed. On the monitor, all I see is that same angled view of Dogwood. Vivian’s no longer there. Nor is anyone else.
I tell myself, This isn’t happening.
I tell myself, I’m not going crazy.
It’s no use. Panic and fear have already overtaken me, turning my body numb. A fuzzy blackness encroaches on the edge of my vision, pulsing across my eyes until I see nothing at all. My arm jabs forward, reaching for something to grab on to. Someone catches it. Theo. Or maybe Detective Flynn.
But it’s too late.
My arm slips from their grasp, and I fall, crashing onto the cellar floor and fainting dead away.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
The sweatshirt sat on a table in the arts and crafts building, sleeves spread wide. It was the same way my mother laid out clothes she wanted me to wear. The whole ensemble revealed, enticing me to put it on. Only this shirt was different. Rather than wear it, the police wanted me to identify it.
“Do you recognize it?” asked a female state trooper with a warm smile and a matronly bosom.
I stared at the sweatshirt—white with Princeton spelled across the front in proud Tiger Orange—and nodded. “It’s Vivian’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She had worn it to one of the campfires. I remembered because I had joked that it made her look like a marshmallow. She said it kept the mosquitoes away, fashion be damned.
The trooper shot a glance at a colleague on the other side of the table. He nodded and quickly folded the sweatshirt. Latex gloves covered his hands. I had no idea why.
“Did you take that out of Dogwood?” I said.