VIV

I crack open her trunk, even though I know it’s Miranda’s now and that inside aren’t Vivian’s clothes and crafts and bottle of Obsession she swore covered the scent of bug spray. In their place are Miranda’s clothes—an assortment of too-tight shorts and lacy bras and panties utterly inappropriate for camp. In a corner sits a surprisingly high stack of paperbacks. Gone Girl, Rosemary’s Baby, a few Agatha Christie mysteries.

But the lining inside the lid is the same. Burgundy satin. Just like mine. The only difference, other than the gray stain, is a six-inch tear in the fabric. It sits on the left side of the lid, running vertically, the edges feathery.

Vivian’s hiding place, used to store the pendant necklace she took off only when she slept. A heart-shaped locket hung from it. Gold with a small emerald inlaid in its center.

I know of the hiding place only because I saw Vivian use it on the first full day of camp. I was at my own trunk, searching for my toothbrush, when she knelt in front of hers. She unclasped the necklace and held it for a moment in her cupped hands.

That’s pretty, I said. An heirloom?

It belonged to my sister.

Belonged?

She died.

Sorry. Apprehension fluttered in my chest. I’d never met someone with a dead sibling before and didn’t know how to act. I didn’t mean to bring it up.

You didn’t, Vivian said. I did. And it’s healthy to talk about it. That’s what my therapist says.

I felt another flutter. A dead sister and therapy? At that moment, Vivian was the most exotic creature I had ever met.

How’d she die?

She drowned.

Oh, I said, too surprised to say more.

Vivian didn’t say anything else, either. She simply poked her fingers through the tear in the lining and let the necklace slither out of view behind it.

Now I stare at the slash in the fabric, fingering my own piece of jewelry. Unlike Vivian’s necklace, I never remove the charm bracelet. Not to sleep. Not to shower. Not even when painting. The wear and tear shows. Each tiny bird has scratches in the pewter that stand out like scars. Dots of dried paint mar their beaks.

I pry my right hand away from the bracelet and plunge it through the tear in the lining. Fabric tickles my wrist as I stretch my fingers and feel around the inside of the lid. I’m not expecting to find anything. Certainly not the necklace, which Vivian had been wearing when she left the cabin for the very last time. I do it because once I check, I’ll know there’s no trace of Vivian left there.

Only there is.

Something is inside the lid, sitting at the bottom, wedged between wood and fabric. A piece of paper, folded in half. I run a finger along the crease, feeling its length. Then I pinch the edge between my thumb and forefinger and slide it from the lining.

Age has given the paper a yellowish tint—a sickly shade that reminds me of dried egg yolk. The page crackles when I unfold it, revealing an even older-looking photograph nestled in its crease.

I study the photo first. It’s surprisingly old. Something more likely to be found in a museum than in a camp cabin. Sepia-toned and worn along the edges, it depicts a young woman in a plain dress. She sits before a bare wall, turned at an angle that shows off long, dark hair cascading down her back and out of frame.

Clutched in the woman’s hands is a large silver hairbrush, which she holds to her chest like a prized possession. I find the gesture oddly endearing, although one could also assume it’s vanity that makes her grip the brush so tightly. That she spends her days running it through that absurdly long hair, breaking up the tangles, smoothing the strands. But the woman’s expression makes me assume that’s not the case. Although she looks to be in repose, her face is anything but peaceful. Her lips are pressed together, forming a flat line. Her face is pinched. Her eyes, wild and dark, convey sadness, loneliness, and something else. An emotion I know well.

Distress.

I stare into those eyes, finding them disturbingly familiar. I’ve seen that same expression in my own eyes. Not long after I left Camp Nightingale for what I had thought was the last time.

I flip over the photo and see a name scrawled on its back in faded ink.

Eleanor Auburn.

Several questions settle uneasily onto my shoulders. Who is this woman? When was this picture taken? And, above all else, where did Vivian get it, and why was it hidden in her trunk?

The contents of the unfolded page don’t provide any answers. Instead, I see a drawing crudely scratched onto a ruled piece of paper torn from some sort of notebook. The focal point of the drawing is a blob that resembles a paisley, strange and formless. Surrounding it are hundreds of dark slashes, each dashed off in strokes so quick and forceful my painting hand aches just from looking at them. Beneath the paisley, tucked among the slashes, are several shapes. Messy ones. Not quite circles, not quite squares. Off to their left is another circle-square. Bigger than the others.

I realize what it is and gasp.

For reasons I can’t begin to understand, Vivian drew Camp Nightingale.

The paisley is Lake Midnight, dominating the landscape, demanding attention. The slashes are an abstract version of the woods surrounding it. The series of shapes are the cabins. I count twenty of them, just like in real life. The big splotch, of course, is the Lodge, commanding the southern shore of the lake.

Vivian had drawn another cabin-size shape on the other side of the lake, almost directly across from camp. It sits next to the water, all alone. Only there aren’t any structures on the other side of the lake. At least, none that I’m aware of.