It was found the morning after the disappearance, sitting on the forest floor two miles away, almost directly across the lake from Camp Nightingale. The volunteer searcher who discovered the sweatshirt—a local retiree and grandfather of six with no earthly reason to lie—said it was neatly folded into a square, like the sweaters you see on display at the Gap. A lab analysis of the sweatshirt found skin cells that matched Vivian’s DNA. What it didn’t find were any rips, tears, or traces of blood suggesting she had been attacked. It was simply discarded, apparently by Vivian on her way to whatever fate befell her.

But here’s the weird part.

Vivian wasn’t wearing the sweatshirt when I saw her leave the cabin.

In the days after the disappearance, various investigators repeatedly asked me if I was sure it wasn’t tied around her waist or thrown over her shoulders, sleeves knotted in true Princeton preppy fashion.

It wasn’t.

I’m certain of it.

Still, authorities treated that sweatshirt like a beacon, following it into the hills. The search of the lake was called off as everyone took to the forest, searching it in vain. No one—least of all me—had an inkling as to why the girls would have marched miles away from camp. But nothing about the disappearance made sense. It was one of those rare instances that defied all known logic and reason.

The only person ever considered a suspect was Franny’s oldest son, Theo Harris-White. Nothing came of it. No traces of him were discovered on Vivian’s sweatshirt. Nothing incriminating was found in his possession. He even had an alibi—he spent the night with Chet, teaching his younger brother how to play chess into the wee hours of the morning. With no evidence that a crime had actually taken place, Theo wasn’t charged. Which meant he also wasn’t officially exonerated. Even now, a Google search of Theo’s name brings up true-crime websites that suggest he killed the girls and managed to get away with it.

The hunt for the girls didn’t officially end so much as it lost steam. The search parties fruitlessly continued for another few weeks, their numbers dwindling day by day until they eventually dried up. News coverage of the disappearance also evaporated as reporters moved on to newer, flashier stories.

Filling that void were darker theories. Ones found in the deepest corners of Reddit and conspiracy websites. Rumors swirl that the girls had been murdered by a savage madman who lived in the woods. That they had been abducted—either by humans or aliens, depending on which website you read. That something even more mystically sinister happened to them. Witches. Werewolves. Spontaneous cellular disintegration.

Not even former campers are immune from the rumors, which I learn when I open Facebook on my phone and finally unmute the posts from Camp Nightingale alumni. The first thing I see is a photo posted an hour ago by Casey Anderson, a short, red-haired counselor I had met on my first morning at camp. She was also, incidentally, the first Camp Nightingale veteran to seek me out on Facebook. Although I genuinely liked her, that friend request went ignored with all the others. Now I stare at a photo she took of the cabins with Lake Midnight glistening in the background.

Back again, she wrote. Feels like old times.

The picture had already received fifty likes and several responses.

Erica Hammond: Have a great summer!

Lena Gallagher: Awwww. Brings back memories.

Felecia Wellington: I can’t believe you went back there. Franny could offer me a million dollars and I still wouldn’t go.

Casey Anderson: Which is probably why Franny didn’t ask you. I’m happy to be here.

Maggie Collins: Agreed! That place always freaked me out.

Hope Levin Smith: I’m with Felecia. This is a bad, bad idea.

Casey Anderson: Why?

Hope Levin Smith: Because that place and its lake are messed up! We’ve all heard the legend. We all know there’s a ring of truth to it.

Lena Gallagher: OMG, that legend! Scared me so much back then.

Hope Levin Smith: You had every right to be scared.

Casey Anderson: You’re all being ridiculous.

Hope Levin Smith: Casey, you’re the one who talked about it the most! You can’t call it bullshit now that you’re back there.

Felecia Wellington: Don’t forget we all know what happened to Viv, Ally, and Natalie wasn’t an accident. You said so yourself.

Brooke Tiffany Sample: Who else is going to be there this summer?

Casey Anderson: Of people you know, me, Becca Schoenfeld, and Emma Davis.

Brooke Tiffany Sample: Emma?!? Holy fuck!

Maggie Collins: After all that shit she said about Theo?

Hope Levin Smith: Wow.

Lena Gallagher: That’s, um, interesting.

Felecia Wellington: I’d love to know how that happened. Watch your back, Casey. LOL

Casey Anderson: Be nice. I’m excited to see her.

Erica Hammond: Who’s Emma Davis?

I close Facebook and turn off my phone, unable to stomach reading another word of gossip and crackpot theories. Other than Casey, I can’t recall meeting any of those women while at camp. Nor have I heard the stories that the lake is cursed or haunted. It’s bullshit. All of it.

Only one of the responses is the absolute truth. What happened to Vivian, Natalie, and Allison wasn’t an accident.

I know because I’m the one who caused it.

Although their eventual fate remains a mystery, I’m certain that what happened to those girls is all my fault.