“This is all the more reason for you to go.” Marc reaches across the table and clasps my hands. His palms are callused, his fingers lined with scars. The hands of a lifelong cook. “Maybe being there again is all you need to start painting something different. You know the old saying—sometimes the only way out is through.”

* * *

—

After dinner, I return to my loft and stand before a blank canvas. Its emptiness taunts me, as it’s done for weeks. A wide expanse of nothing daring me to fill it.

I grab a palette, well-worn and rainbow-hued. I smear some paint onto it, dab it with the tip of a brush, and will myself to paint something. Anything but the girls. I touch the brush to the canvas, bristles gliding, trailing color.

But then I take a step back and stare at the brushstroke, studying it. It’s yellow. Slightly curved. Like an S that’s been squished. It is, I realize, a length of Vivian’s hair, the blond streak doing a little flip as she retreats. There’s nothing else it could be.

I grab a nearby rag that reeks of turpentine and swipe it over the yellow paint until it’s just a faint smudge marring the canvas. Tears spring from my eyes as I realize the only thing I’ve painted in weeks is this indistinct smear.

It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.

I wipe my eyes, noticing something on the edge of my vision. Near the window. A movement. A flash.

Blond hair. Pale skin.

Vivian.

I yelp and drop the rag, the fingers of my right hand grasping at the bracelet around my left. I give it a twist, the birds taking flight as I whirl around to face her.

Only it’s not Vivian I see.

It’s me, reflected in the window. In the night-darkened glass, I look startled, weak, and, above all else, shaken.

Shaken that the girls are always in my thoughts and on my canvases, even though it makes no sense. That after fifteen long years, I know as much about what happened now as I did the night they left the cabin. That in the days following the disappearance, I only made things worse. For Franny. For her family. For myself.

I could finally change that. Just one small hint about what happened could make a difference. It won’t erase my sins. But there is a chance it could make them more bearable.

I turn away from the window, grab my phone, and dial the number printed so elegantly on the calling card Franny gave me last night. The call goes straight to voicemail and a recording of Lottie suggesting I leave a message.

“This is Emma Davis. I’ve given more thought about Franny’s offer to spend the summer at Camp Nightingale.” I pause, not quite believing what I’m about to say next. “And my answer is yes. I’ll do it.”

I hang up before I can change my mind. Even so, I’m struck with the urge to call again and take it all back. My finger twitches against the phone’s screen, itching to do just that. Instead, I call Marc.

“I’m going back to Camp Nightingale,” I announce before he can say hello.

“I’m glad to hear my pep talk worked,” Marc says. “Closure is a good thing, Em.”

“I want to try to find them.”

There’s silence on Marc’s end. I picture him blinking a few times while running a hand through his hair—his normal reaction to something he can’t quite comprehend. Eventually, he says, “I know I encouraged you to go, Em, but this doesn’t sound like the best idea.”

“Bad idea or not, that’s why I’m going.”

“But try to think clearly here. What do you rationally expect to find?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably nothing.”

I certainly don’t expect to uncover Vivian, Natalie, and Allison. They literally vanished without a trace, which makes it hard to know where to start looking for them. Then there’s the sheer size of the place. While Camp Nightingale may be small, much more land surrounds it. More than six square miles of forest. If several hundred searchers couldn’t find them fifteen years ago, I’m not going to find them now.

“But what if one of them left something behind?” I say. “Something hinting at where they were going or what they were up to.”

“And what if there is?” Marc asks. “It still won’t bring them back.”

“I understand that.”

“Which begs another question: Why do you need this so much?”

I pause, thinking of a way to explain the unexplainable. It’s not easy, especially when Marc doesn’t know the full story. I settle on saying, “Have you ever regretted something days, weeks, even years after you’ve done it?”

“Sure,” Marc says. “I think everyone has at least one big regret.”

“What happened at that camp is mine. For fifteen years, I’ve waited for a clue. Just some small thing hinting at what happened to them. Now I have a chance to go back there and look for myself. Likely the last chance I’ll get to try to find some answers. If I turn that down, I worry it will just become another thing to regret.”

Marc sighs, which means I’ve convinced him. “Just promise me you won’t do something stupid,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like put yourself in danger.”

“It’s a summer camp,” I say. “It’s not like I’m infiltrating the mob. I’m simply going to go, look around, maybe ask a few questions. And when those six weeks are over, perhaps I’ll have some idea of what happened to them. Even if I don’t, maybe being there again is all I need to start painting something different. You said it yourself—sometimes the only way out is through.”