But as more conflicting stories emerge from fellow campers and former classmates, many who thought they knew her say they’re left asking: Who is Elaine Baxter, and could she really be capable of murder?
We’ll soon find out. Jury selection for Baxter’s trial is set to begin October 22. A spokesperson for the family of the slain teenager, Jackson Winter, says they remain devastated over the loss of their beloved brother, nephew, grandchild, and son, and hope that at last the full truth about the circumstances surrounding his death will emerge in court.
Camper and Counselor Interviews, Statements, and Posts
August 14–November 24
“Lainie loved a good story, especially if she was the one telling it. I don’t think she cared so much if the story was actually true.”
“I knew Lainie pretty well. I mean, she was in my cabin the whole time. I had the top bunk on the bed next to hers and Kayla’s. But all the stuff in the news and the things people are saying, it doesn’t match up with the Lainie I thought I knew. Like, some of the stuff she told us made it seem like she came from a lot of money, and now it turns out the opposite is true. And I’m just like, why? About all of it. But about that stuff, the little stuff, too. It feels like we might never know the whole truth about her.”
“Lainie was always telling wild stories. I loved to hear her talk. She could be telling you what she had for breakfast and she’d make it seem like the most exciting thing around, like eating oatmeal was an adventure you wished you could go on too. I don’t think that makes her a liar. It made her interesting.”
“I’ve never met anyone so charismatic. She was just likable, and the stories she told were part of that, even if some were exaggerated. Isn’t that what they say about all psychopaths, though? That they’re always charming? I think I heard that on a podcast once.”
“I’m not surprised she turned out to be a liar and a murderer. Everyone thought she was so great, but she was too good to be true, you know?
“I don’t say that just because of me and Jackson. Even if he hadn’t had a thing with Lainie, I wouldn’t have kissed him again. I’m not a boyfriend thief. We were caught up in a moment, that’s all. It never happened again.”
“Ugh, you shouldn’t listen to a word Emma says about Lainie. She thinks hooking up with Jackson once made her an expert on them both. Like, hello, sucking face with a notorious fuckboy doesn’t show you the depths of his soul, let alone make you an authority on the other girl he’s been cheating on his girlfriend with.
“Lainie might have spun a few tall tales, but Emma was downright delusional. She still won’t let it go.”
“This whole thing feels like a story she might tell, one that keeps everyone gasping and guessing until the end. She was always in control of every twist and turn, and good at manipulating audiences too. People ate it right up, whatever she’d tell them, no matter how outrageous the story got. When she told it, you’d be all wrapped up in listening, and maybe after you’d have a moment of Wait, could that really be true? But she made you want to believe her, every word of it. And often it was like, well, it must be true, because who would invent something like that?”
September 11
Dear Lainie,
I remember the first time I watched you lie. Or rather, the first time I saw it and knew you were lying. The first time I was an accomplice, not a witness.
Before that, there were other times. Times when I wasn’t certain, just confused—when it seemed like your stories didn’t quite match up or that if they contained truth, you were probably stretching it. Like that time you told the story about your cat.
The cat story was harmless. (They all seemed harmless to me, all summer, until the last one.) People were hanging out in the mess hall after lunch, talking about ways adults can be clueless. Obvious double entendres going over a sex ed teacher’s head; parents trying to be hip about music; a chaperone who believes the bottle being passed around a bus contains only water. That kind of thing. It was the first week, and everyone was trying to show off how edgy and cool they could be. But you didn’t care about cred.
You told us about the time your cat was off roaming the neighborhood, and another black cat came in through the cat door and made himself at home in your house. Your parents fed him and petted him and called him by your cat’s name, and nobody believed you that “This isn’t Stormy!” Until Stormy came back home hours later.
Your parents looked back and forth between the stray cat on the couch and your cat entering the living room, hissing and raising his fur at the intruder. Your mom’s jaw dropped and your dad blinked rapidly, like that might clear his double vision. The stray cat stretched and yawned, lifted his leg, peed on the sofa, then bolted out the door. Your dad blinked one more time and went back to his iPad. Your mom cleaned up the mess. Neither of them spoke of it again.
I laughed with everyone else, but later, when it was just us, asked, “I thought you said your parents wouldn’t let you have a pet.”
“Oh, they won’t,” you said cheerfully. “My mom’s allergic to everything, or claims she is. I think she just doesn’t like animals or messes, but whatever. That’s my friend’s story about the cats. It really happened. Everything except the peeing part.”
“But you told it like it’s yours,” I said, feeling slow.
“Yeah. It’s a better story that way,” you said. And of course you were right.
The first time I was in on it happened a few days later, in week two. You didn’t warn me in advance, but I think it was spur-of-the-moment. Most of your lies weren’t premeditated.
The night before, we’d snuck out for the fourth or fifth time. Our escapes happened regularly, but not every night, and not on a schedule I could predict. It was all according to your whims. I didn’t mind. The uncertainty was part of the excitement.
That night I expected to follow you down the hill, onto the dock, where we’d always gone before. I already thought of the dock as Our Place, even though a hundred people or more used it in daytime. But you turned left out our cabin door and went up the path toward the road. I hustled after you.
“Where are we going?” I whispered once we’d gotten a safe distance away. The moon was full, low, and bright. The brightness felt dangerous, like a spotlight was on us.
You weren’t worried about hiding. You walked down the center of the empty dirt road and opened your arms to the galaxy. You twirled before acknowledging my question. “To town,” you said.
“How?” Town was a few miles away, and neither of us was dressed for civilization. We’d look like fugitives in our pajamas, even if it weren’t clearly past our bedtime. (It was past everyone in Jaspertown’s bedtime. Early bedtime’s the whole point of rural life.)
You shrugged. “We’ll hitchhike. Find a bar where we can dance with the locals.”
I stared at you. “Are you serious?”
You grinned and held out your hand. “If I am, will you go with me?”
I took the offered hand. You spun me like the road was our dance hall. “It’s one a.m. I highly doubt anything is open around here at this hour,” I said.