by Riley Sager
And that we’d fought right before they left.
So many lies. Each one felt like a rock on my chest, holding me down, so heavy I could barely breath. I could either admit them and set myself free or add another one and hope I’d eventually get accustomed to the weight.
“Emma?” Franny said, this time with more insistence. “Do you?”
I remained silent.
“I see.”
Franny removed her hand from my back, but not before I felt a tremor stirring in her fingers. They drummed along my spine a moment, then were gone. A few seconds later, Franny was gone, too. She left without saying another word. I spent the rest of the night alone, wide-awake in my lower bunk, wondering just what kind of monster I’d become.
* * *
—
In the morning, it was Lottie who knocked on Dogwood’s door to tell me my parents had arrived to take me home. Since I couldn’t sleep, I’d packed hours earlier, transferring the contents of my hickory trunk into my suitcase as dawn broke over the lake.
I carried the suitcase out of the cabin and into a camp that had become a ghost town. Silence hung over the empty cabins and darkened buildings—an eerie hush broken only by the sound of my parents’ Volvo idling near the mess hall. My mother got out of the car and opened the trunk. She then flashed Lottie an embarrassed smile, as if I had been sent home from a sleepover after wetting my sleeping bag.
“Franny apologizes for not being able to say good-bye,” Lottie told me, pretending that neither of us knew it was a lie. “She wishes you a safe trip home.”
In the distance, the front door to the Lodge opened up and Theo stepped outside, flanked by two of the detectives who had quickly become a common sight around camp. The firm grip they kept on Theo’s elbows made it clear this wasn’t a voluntary exit. I stood dumbly by the car and watched as they walked him to the arts and crafts building, likely for another interrogation. Theo caught sight of me and gave me a pleading look, silently begging me to intervene.
It was my last chance to tell the truth.
Instead, I climbed into the Volvo’s back seat and said, “Please, Dad. Just go.”
As my father started to drive away, the Lodge door gaped open yet again. This time, Chet ran out, his face tear-stained, legs a blur. He sprinted to the arts and crafts building, calling out Theo’s name. Lottie rushed to intercept him and dragged him back to the Lodge, waving to my father to leave before we saw anything else.
Yet I continued to watch, turning around in my seat so I could look out the back window. I kept on looking as Lottie, Chet, and the quiet remains of Camp Nightingale faded from view.
32
When Becca leaves, I remain curled up in my bunk, Krystal’s bear in my arms, trying to think of what to do about Lottie. Tell someone else, obviously. But my options are few. Detective Flynn doesn’t trust me. I don’t trust Franny. And even Theo would have a hard time believing my word over the word of the woman who’s been with his family for decades.
I stare out the window, weighing my options while watching the evening sky succumb to thick darkness. The search crew in the helicopter has started using a spotlight, sweeping it across the water. When it rumbles overhead every fifteen minutes or so, the light brightens the trees outside the cabin window.
I’m watching the play of the light in the leaves when there’s another knock on the door. It opens a second later, revealing Mindy bearing a tray from the cafeteria.
“I brought dinner,” she announces.
What sits on the tray definitely isn’t cafeteria food. This is dinner straight from the Lodge. Filet mignon still swirling with steam and roasted potatoes seasoned with rosemary. Their scents fill the cabin, making it smell like Thanksgiving.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, even though under normal circumstances, I’d already be devouring the steak. Especially considering how stress and shitty cafeteria food have conspired to keep me from consuming, well, almost anything since I arrived. But I can’t even look at the food, let alone eat it. Anxiety has knotted my stomach so tight I worry it might never unravel.
“I also brought wine,” Mindy says, holding up a bottle of pinot noir.
“That I’ll take.”
“I get half,” Mindy says. “I’m telling you, it’s been a day. The campers are terrified, and the rest of us are at our wit’s end trying to keep them calm and occupied.”
She sets the tray on the hickory trunk that was once Allison’s and is now Sasha’s. Maybe. Or maybe it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. It’s like Krystal’s teddy bear—temporarily ownerless.
From the way Mindy simply plucks the cork from the wine, I can tell the bottle had been opened back in the Lodge. Probably to prevent me from having access to a corkscrew. On the tray, I see that the fork and knife are plastic. When Mindy pours the wine, it’s into plastic cups. It brings back memories of the mental hospital, where no sharp objects were allowed.
“Cheers,” Mindy says as she hands me a cup and taps it with her own. “Drink up.”
That I do, draining the entire cup before coming up for air and asking, “Why the special treatment?”
Mindy sits on the edge of Krystal’s bed, facing me. “It was Franny’s idea. She said you deserved something nice, considering all the stress you’ve been under. It’s been a hard day for all of us, but you especially.”
“I’m assuming there’s an ulterior motive.”
“I think she also thought it might be a good idea for us to share this wine and get comfortable with each other, seeing how I’ve been ordered to spend the night here.”
“Why?” I ask.
“To keep an eye on you, I guess.”
There’s no need for her to elaborate. No one trusts me. Not when Sasha, Krystal, and Miranda remain missing. I’m still under suspicion until they’re found. If they’re found. Hence the flimsy knife and plastic cup, into which I pour more wine. Mindy watches as I fill it to the brim.
“The way I see it, we have two choices here,” I say. “We can either ignore each other and sit in silence. Or we could chat.”
“The second one,” Mindy says. “I hate too much quiet.”
It’s exactly the answer I expected. Which is the reason I gave her the choice—to make it feel like it was her idea to gossip.
“How’s the mood in the Lodge?” I ask. “Is everyone handling it well?”
“Of course not. They’re worried sick. Especially Franny.”
“What about Lottie?” I say. “She always struck me as a cool customer. I bet that’s good in a time of crisis.”
“I don’t know. She seems just as worried as the rest of us.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I imagine she must be pretty devoted to Franny after working for her all these years.”
“You’d think,” Mindy says. “But I also get the sense that Lottie considers it just a job, you know? She gets to Franny’s penthouse in the morning and leaves in the evening like any employee would do. She gets sick days. She has vacation time. I don’t think she’s too happy about having to spend the summer here. Neither am I, but here I am, doing my best to impress Franny.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
Mindy pours herself some more wine, filling her cup as high as I did. After taking a hearty sip, she says, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“You’re keeping me here under house arrest. So that would be a definite no.”
“Even before this. When you first got to camp. It’s okay to admit it.”
I say nothing. Which, in its own way, is an answer.
“I knew it. I could tell,” Mindy says. “I knew girls like you in college. So artsy and open-minded but so quick to judge people like me. Let me guess: you probably took one look at me and thought I was some spoiled sorority girl who screwed her way into the Harris-White family.”
/> “Aren’t you?”
“A sorority girl? Yes. And proud of it. Just like I’m proud of the fact that I was pretty enough and charming enough to catch the attention of someone like Chet Harris-White.”
“I’ll agree that you’re pretty,” I say, shedding any pretense of civility. Maybe it’s the wine. Or the spirit of Vivian lingering in the cabin, encouraging bitchiness.
“For the record, Chet pursued me. And it took a lot of convincing. I had no interest in dating the spoiled rich kid.”
“But aren’t you spoiled and rich?”
“Far from it,” Mindy says. “I grew up on a farm. Bet you didn’t see that coming.”
I had assumed she was born privileged. The daughter of a Southern attorney, perhaps, or a prominent physician, like Natalie was.
“It was a dairy farm,” she tells me. “In middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. Every morning from kindergarten to graduation I was up before dawn, feeding and milking the cows. I hated every minute of it. But I knew I was smart, and I knew I was pretty. Two things women need most to get ahead in this world. I studied hard and socialized and tried my best to pretend that my hands didn’t always stink of raw milk and cow manure. And it paid off. Class president. Homecoming queen. Valedictorian. When I got to Yale, the pretending continued, even after I started dating Chet.”
Mindy leans back on the bed, swirling the wine in her plastic cup. She crosses her legs, getting comfortable. I think she might already be drunk. I envy her.
“I was so nervous the first time Chet took me to meet Franny. I thought she’d see right through me. Especially when I got out of the car and saw their name on that building. And then the ride in the elevator, all the way up to the top floor. Franny was waiting for us in the greenhouse. Have you seen it?”
“I have. It’s impressive.”
“It’s insane,” Mindy says. “But the nerves went away when I learned the truth.”
She takes a gulp of wine, leaving me hanging.
“About what?”
“That they’re not nearly as rich as they look. At least, not anymore. Franny sold the Harris years ago. All she owns now is the penthouse and Lake Midnight.
“That still sounds pretty rich to me.”
“Oh, it is,” Mindy says. “But now it’s only a few million and not, like, a billion.”
“How’d Franny lose so much money?”
“Because of this place.” Even though Mindy looks around Dogwood’s tight confines, I know she’s referring to what lies beyond it. The camp. The lake. The woods. The girls. “Restoring a bad reputation can get expensive. For Franny that meant settlements to the families of those missing girls. Chet told me it was at least ten million each. I guess Franny threw it at them like it was nothing. She did the same thing to a whole bunch of charities, trying to get back in people’s good graces. And don’t even get me started on Theo.”
“The accident,” I say. “Chet mentioned it.”
“That car he wrecked was chump change compared to what Franny had to spend to get Harvard to take him back. They weren’t too keen on inviting an accused killer onto campus. No offense.”
I nod, grudgingly respecting Mindy for giving as good as she gets. “None taken.”
“Chet told me Franny had to pay for a new lab building before they’d even consider letting Theo return. I think that’s around the same time she sold the Harris. In my opinion, she should have sold this place instead. Chet said he tried talking to her about selling the land around Lake Midnight, but she wouldn’t even consider it. So I guess the sale will have to wait—”
Mindy cuts herself off before she can let slip that Franny is dying. Even though I already know about the cancer, I admire her discretion. It’s nice to see there are some family secrets she’s not willing to spill.
“Anyway, that’s their money situation,” she says. “Between you and me, I’m relieved. The thought of all that money scared the hell out of me. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still plenty. More than my family ever had. But it’s less intimidating. The more money there is, the more I feel the need to pretend. Which means I’ll keep worrying that my hands still smell like a dairy farm.”
Mindy looks down at her hands, turning them over to inspect them in the light of the nightstand lantern.
“I’m sorry for judging you,” I say.
“I’m used to it. Just don’t tell Chet or Franny or anyone else. Please.”
“I won’t.”
“Thank you. And for the record, I don’t think you did anything to those girls. I’ve seen the way you act around them. You all liked one another. I could tell.”
The mention of Miranda, Sasha, and Krystal sends another wave of worry crashing over me. To combat it, I gulp down more wine.
“I hope they’re okay,” I say. “I need them to be.”
“I do, too.” Mindy drains her cup, sets it on the nightstand, and crawls under Krystal’s lumpy covers. “Otherwise the Harris-White name is going to be dragged through the mud again. And I’ve got a feeling that this time it’s going to stick.”
33
After the bottle of wine has been emptied and the steak and potatoes have long gone cold, Mindy falls asleep.
I don’t.
Worry, fear, and the prospect of another nighttime visit from Vivian keep me awake. Whenever I close my eyes, I see Sasha’s mangled glasses and think of her alone somewhere, stumbling blindly, possibly bleeding. So I keep them open and clutch Krystal’s teddy bear to my chest while listening to Mindy snore on the other side of the room. Every so often, the sound is drowned out by the helicopter taking another pass over the camp. Each time its spotlight sweeps past the cabin means another update on the status of the search.
The girls are still missing.
It’s almost midnight when my phone springs to life in the darkness. Marc is calling, the ringtone loud and insistent in the quiet cabin.
Mindy’s snoring abruptly stops. “Too loud,” she says, still half-asleep.
I silence the phone and whisper, “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”
The phone vibrates in my hand. Marc’s sent a text.
Found something. CALL ME!
I wait until Mindy’s snoring returns before sliding out of bed and tiptoeing to the door. I grab the doorknob, on the verge of twisting it open, when I realize that I can’t go outside. Not with a camera aimed directly at the door and one of Detective Flynn’s minions surely sitting in the Lodge’s cellar, monitoring the live feed.
Rather than risk raising all kinds of red flags, I go to the window. Carefully, I take the lantern off the nightstand and place it on Miranda’s bed, where I won’t trip over it on my way back inside. I then reach across the nightstand and gingerly lift the window first, then its screen.
I shoot a glance Mindy’s way, making sure she’s still asleep before climbing atop the nightstand and swinging my legs out the window. I twist, the sill pressing into my stomach as I lower myself to the ground.
To avoid the camera outside Dogwood completely, I have to cut behind the other cabins on my way to the latrine. I move in a half crouch, trying not to be noticed by anyone inside the cabins or roaming about outside.
The only real threat of being spotted comes from the helicopter and its stupid spotlight, which passes overhead within a minute of my being outside. I throw myself against the wall of the nearest cabin, my back flattened against it, arms at my sides. The spotlight’s beam sweeps past me, oblivious to my presence.
I don’t move until the helicopter skims over the lake. Then I run, sprinting to the latrine, my phone sliding around in my pocket. Inside, I turn on the lights and check each bathroom stall and shower. Just like during my search for the girls this morning, it’s empty. Unlike then, I’m relieved to be alone.
I make my way to one of the stalls, closing the door and locking it for extra privacy. Then I pull out
my phone and call Marc. The connection is weak. When he answers, static stutters into his words.
“Billy and . . . found . . . thing.”
I check the phone. There’s one bar of signal. Not good at all. I stand atop the toilet seat, holding the phone toward the ceiling, hoping for a better signal. It now shows two bars, the second one wavering and unsteady. I stay on the toilet, my body tilted, bent elbow jutting toward the ceiling. It works. The static is gone.
“What did you find?”
“Not much,” Marc tells me. “Billy says it’s hard to research something like a private asylum. Especially one so small and remote. He ended up looking everywhere. Books. Newspapers. Historical records. He had a friend search the library’s photo archives and made a few calls to the library at Syracuse. I’m going to email everything he found. Some of it couldn’t be scanned because it was too old or in bad condition. But I wrote those down.”
The sound of rustling paper bursts from the phone, high-pitched and screechy.
“Billy found a few mentions of a Mr. C. Cutler of Peaceful Valley in the ledger of Hardiman Brothers, a wig company on the Lower East Side. Do any of those names sound familiar?”
“Charles Cutler,” I say. “He was the owner. He sold his patients’ hair to wigmakers.”
“That’s Dickensian,” Marc says. “And it would explain why the Hardiman brothers paid him fifty dollars on three different occasions.”
“When was this?”
“Once in 1901. Twice in 1902.”
“That lines up with what I saw in the book Vivian found at the library. There was a picture of the place from 1898.”
“Did the book mention when it closed?” Marc asks.
“No. Why?”
“Because something strange happened after that.” There’s more rustling on Marc’s end, followed by more static, which makes me worry the signal is again getting worse. “Billy found a newspaper article from 1904. It’s about a man named Helmut Schmidt of Yonkers. Does that ring a bell?”
