“You’ve already mentioned that,” Detective Flynn says. “But, again, there’s no way to prove that. All this video does is confirm that you left the cabin not long after the girls did. And now no one can find them.”

“I didn’t do anything to those girls!”

I look to Chet, to Theo, to Franny, silently begging them to back me up, even though there’s no reason they should. I’m not surprised when, instead of coming to my defense, Franny says, “Normally, I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing this. Everyone has a right to privacy, especially regarding incidents in their past. But under these circumstances, I feel I must. Emma, please forgive me.”

She offers a look that’s half-apology, half-pity. I don’t want either. So I look away as Franny says, “Years ago, Miss Davis was under psychiatric care for an undisclosed mental illness.”

While she talks, I stare at the third monitor. The live feed from outside the cabin. Currently, the area is empty. No campers. No Mindy or Casey. Just the front door of Dogwood at that Hitchcockian angle.

“We discovered this during a background check,” Franny continues. “Against the advice of our attorneys, we invited her here for the summer. We didn’t think she was a threat to herself or the campers. Nonetheless, precautions were taken.”

Flynn, proving himself to be nobody’s fool, says, “Hence the camera.”

“Yes,” Franny says. “I just thought you should know. To show we’re doing everything we can to help in your search. I don’t mean to imply in any way whatsoever that I think Emma had something to do with this disappearance.”

Yet that’s exactly what she’s doing. I keep my gaze fixed on the monitor, unwilling to look away because it would mean facing Franny again. And I’m not sure I can do that.

On the screen, a girl edges into view, her back straight, her steps precise. She knows the camera is there. At first, I think it’s a camper, maybe sneaking out of a neighboring cabin to get another peek of the state troopers milling around the mess hall.

Then I see the blond hair, the white dress, the locket around her neck.

It’s Vivian.

Right there on the monitor.

I gasp in shock—a ragged, watery sound.

Chet’s the first to notice and says, “Emma? What’s wrong?”

My hand trembles as I point to the monitor. Vivian is still there. She looks directly into the camera and gives a coy smile. As if she knows I’m watching. She even waves to me.

“You see that, right?”

“See what?” It’s Theo this time, his brow creasing with doctor-like concern.

“Her,” I say. “In front of Dogwood.”

All of them turn to the monitor, crowding around it, blocking my view.

“There’s nothing there,” Theo says.

“Did you see one of the missing girls?” Flynn says.

“Vivian. I saw Vivian.”

I push between them, regaining my view of the live feed. On the monitor, all I see is that same angled view of Dogwood. Vivian’s no longer there. Nor is anyone else.

I tell myself, This isn’t happening.

I tell myself, I’m not going crazy.

It’s no use. Panic and fear have already overtaken me, turning my body numb. A fuzzy blackness encroaches on the edge of my vision, pulsing across my eyes until I see nothing at all. My arm jabs forward, reaching for something to grab on to. Someone catches it. Theo. Or maybe Detective Flynn.

But it’s too late.

My arm slips from their grasp, and I fall, crashing onto the cellar floor and fainting dead away.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

The sweatshirt sat on a table in the arts and crafts building, sleeves spread wide. It was the same way my mother laid out clothes she wanted me to wear. The whole ensemble revealed, enticing me to put it on. Only this shirt was different. Rather than wear it, the police wanted me to identify it.

“Do you recognize it?” asked a female state trooper with a warm smile and a matronly bosom.

I stared at the sweatshirt—white with Princeton spelled across the front in proud Tiger Orange—and nodded. “It’s Vivian’s.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She had worn it to one of the campfires. I remembered because I had joked that it made her look like a marshmallow. She said it kept the mosquitoes away, fashion be damned.

The trooper shot a glance at a colleague on the other side of the table. He nodded and quickly folded the sweatshirt. Latex gloves covered his hands. I had no idea why.

“Did you take that out of Dogwood?” I said.

The female trooper ignored the question. “Was Vivian wearing that sweatshirt when you saw her leave the cabin?”

“No.”

“Give it some more thought. Take your time.”

“I don’t need more time. She wasn’t wearing it.”

If I seemed irritable, it was justified. The girls had been missing for more than a day, and everyone was running out of hope. I felt it all throughout camp. It was like a leak in a tub of water, the optimism draining away drop by precious drop. During that time, the arts and crafts building had been taken over by the police, who used it to organize search parties, sign in volunteers, and, in my case, informally interrogate thirteen-year-old girls.