“You’re best friends,” I said. “I understand.”

The counselors handed out sparklers, which we lowered into the campfire until they ignited into starbursts. Sizzling. White-hot.

Allison climbed to her feet and sliced the sparkler through the air, forming letters, spelling her name. Vivian did the same, the letters massive, hovering there in streaks of sparks.

A distant boom drew our attention to the sky, where golden tendrils of fireworks trickled to nothingness. More replaced them, painting the night red then yellow then green. The fireworks promised in the nearby town, only we at Camp Nightingale could also see them. Allison stood on one of the benches to improve her view. I stayed on the ground, pleasantly surprised when Vivian embraced me from behind and whispered in my ear, “Awesome, right?”

Although it seemed as though she was talking about the fireworks, I knew she was actually referring to something else. Us. This place. This moment.

“I want you to always remember this,” she said as another bloom of color streaked through the sky. “Promise me you will.”

“Of course,” I said.

“You’ve got to promise, Em. Promise me you’ll never forget.”

“I promise.”

“That’s my little sister.”

She kissed the top of my head and let me go. I kept my eyes on the sky, enthralled by the colors, how they shimmered and blended before fading away. I tried counting the colors, losing track as explosion after explosion erupted in the distance. The big finish. All the colors commingling until the sky grew so bright I was forced to squint.

Then it was over. The colors vanished, replaced by black sky and pinpoint stars.

“So pretty,” I said, turning around to see if Vivian agreed.

But there was no one behind me. Just a campfire slowly reducing itself to glowing embers.

Vivian was gone.

25

I skip the campfire again, using tiredness as an excuse. It’s not entirely a lie. All this being watched and sneaking around have left me exhausted. So I slip into comfortable clothes—a T-shirt and a pair of plaid boxers worn as shorts—and sprawl out in my bottom bunk. I tell the girls to go have fun without me. When they leave Dogwood, I check my newly charged phone for an email from Marc regarding his research assignment. All I get is a text reading, Mr. Library is still adorbs! Why did I ever break up with him? xoxo I text back, Stay focused.

A few minutes later, I’m back outside and heading to another cabin. Golden Oak. I wait by the door until a trio of campers scurry out, on their way to the campfire. Becca is the last to emerge. Her body goes rigid when she sees me. Already she knows something is amiss.

“Don’t wait up. I’m right behind you,” she tells her campers before turning to me and, in a far less friendly voice, says, “Need something, Emma?”

“The truth would be nice.” I hold up my phone, revealing a photo of a photo. Her and Vivian, their arms entangled, inseparable. “You feel like sharing this time?”

Becca nods, her lips pursed, and retreats back into the cabin. When a minute passes and she doesn’t emerge, I start to think that she simply intends to ignore me. But she comes out eventually with a leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

“Supplies,” she says. “I think we’re going to need them.”

We cut through the cabins and head to the lake. It’s the thick of twilight, the sky tilting ever closer from day to night. A few stars spark to life overhead, and the moon sits low in the sky on the other side of the lake, still on the rise.

Becca and I each take a seat on rocks near the water’s edge, so close our knees practically touch. She opens the satchel, removing a bottle of whiskey and a large folder. She opens the bottle and takes a deep gulp before passing it to me. I do the same, wincing at the whiskey’s sharp burn in the back of my throat. Becca takes the bottle from my hands and replaces it with the folder.

“What’s this?”

“Memories,” she says.

I open the folder, and a stack of photographs spills onto my lap. “You took these?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

I sort through the photos, marveling at how talented she was even at such a young age. The pictures are in black and white. Stark. Each one a spontaneous moment caught on the sly and preserved forever. Two girls hugging in front of the campfire, silhouetted by the soft-focus flames. The bare legs of someone playing tennis, white skirt flaring, exposing pale thighs. A girl swimming in Lake Midnight, the water up to her freckled shoulders, her hair as slick as a sea lion. Allison, I realize with a jolt. She’s turned away from the camera, focused on something or someone just out of frame. Beads of water cling to her eyelashes.

The last photograph is of Vivian, a lit sparkler in her blurred hand, spelling her name in large slashes. Becca had set the exposure so the letters could be seen. Thin white streaks hanging in midair.

VIV

Fourth of July. Fifteen years ago. The night they vanished.

“My God,” I say. “This could be—”

“The last picture ever taken of her? I think it is.”

The realization makes me reach for the whiskey. The long gulp that follows creates a soft, numbing sensation that helps me ask, “What happened between you and Vivian? I know you stayed with them in Dogwood the year before I came to camp.”