I’m sure you knew I was still cautious and skeptical. I tried to hide it, but it was there, just like our apparent agreement not to speak of it. We barely talked about Jackson at all that week, or about how things were going with him. It was the first time any topic felt off-limits between us, and I felt the distance it caused—a distance of things unsaid. But I held my tongue because I loved you, and you’d asked me to give him another chance—one he seemed to be living up to. If you could forgive him, I would forgive him. I was almost there. You had to know I was trying.
If we’d had the whole week to pretend things were normal, I think by now they truly would be. I mean, if it hadn’t all been an enormous lie.
Was it lucky or unlucky how the truth came to light? That day was the thirteenth too. A Thursday—what should have been two days before the end of the best summer of my life. (Has it really been only three months since it happened? It feels like a whole other lifetime. I guess in some ways, it was.)
I had you to myself that morning, and the plan was to go canoeing. Sunscreen applied, life vests on, paddles in hand, boat signed out and ready. I was in a good mood and you were grumpy-ish, but I figured that would improve once we got out on the water. You slapped the back of your neck and said, “Ugh, I forgot bug spray. They’re eating me alive.”
“So go get it.”
You heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m too lazy,” you said, and I realized you might stay cranky after all.
I set my paddle down. “I’ll get you some.”
You brightened. “Really?”
“Sure. I want to grab my sunglasses anyway.” And I didn’t want mosquitoes shortening our trip.
“You’re the best.”
I ran to the cabin and returned with the OFF!. I was too late. An enormous, face-sucking pest had found you.
I pretended to smack him. “Got one!” I said. You pulled yourself off him and laughed. I aimed the nozzle at Jackson’s face. “Shoot, he’s still moving. You might need extra-strength stuff to get rid of this one.”
Jackson ducked and covered his eyes, and you took the container. I wouldn’t have sprayed it, you know. Blinding him was not in my best interest. I just wanted us to get in the canoe. “I thought you were in the computer lab,” I said.
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m waiting on the 3D printer. Figured I would sneak out here and see if I could find my girl. You need help tipping over the canoe?”
“No,” I said. What was with Jackson and his obsession about entering the lake in dangerous ways? “We’re not tipping.” And you’re not going with us, I added silently. I raised my eyebrows at you and you frowned slightly. Were you really about to invite him to come along?
You didn’t have to. Nitin showed up out of nowhere and asked, “Hey, do you guys need a fourth?” I’d never been so happy to see him.
We both smiled and said “Perfect” at the same time. I meant, Perfect, you can go with Jackson, but you said, “You go with Kayla, and Jackson will go with me.”
I should have spoken up. I should have told Jackson to shove off. But I didn’t. I watched you lift one end of the canoe, our canoe, and carry it to the water. Watched him steady it while you climbed in front. Returned your wave as he used his paddle to push off from the rocks.
Nitin returned with a life vest and said, “Ready?” I nodded, and that was it. We carried our boat to the water. No more chance to avoid what happened next.
I assumed we at least would stick together—that you would wait so we could paddle our boat beside yours—but by the time we’d launched, you were already well across the lake. “You okay with going this way?” Nitin asked as he steered us west along the shore. That kept the sun on our backs and meant we occasionally would get some shade. It was the smart choice. I glanced over at you and Jackson to signal you, but you weren’t even looking my way.
“Whatever you want,” I told Nitin. “I’m easy.”
I heard the low rumble of Jackson’s voice, the high squeal of your laughter. I dug my paddle into the water and tried to sweep away the whole damn lake. We paddled in silence for a while.
“I don’t like it either,” Nitin said.
“What?” I asked.
“Seeing them back together.”
I was too surprised to respond. He continued. “He’s such a dick sometimes. It’s hard to watch. She deserves better.”
On principle, I agreed, yet I felt the need to defend you. “She knows what she’s doing,” I said. “It’s her choice to make, not ours.” (Dr. Rita has said a few times, “You’re very loyal.” It’s more of an observation than a compliment when she says it, but each time I agree and say thank you. It’s true, I am loyal. And I want to be.)
“Yeah, of course,” Nitin said. “I just hate seeing her sign up to get hurt.”
“Isn’t he your friend?” I said. Though lately they’d been far from tight.
I turned in time to see him shrug. “As much as he is yours, I guess.”
Fair point.
They were definitely an odd pairing—Nitin so thoughtful, and Jackson so . . . not. But Nitin was basically a social chameleon—he could fit in anywhere, with anyone, and seemed welcome in every group. But maybe that didn’t mean he liked everyone.
I faced forward again. We’d stopped paddling and the canoe was drifting, but that was fine. I couldn’t paddle and focus on whatever was happening in this strange conversation. It felt like Nitin had maybe sought me out to tell me something specific, but I wasn’t sure what or if I wanted to hear it.
“Yeah, well. She seems happy this time. And he’s really all-in,” I said.
Nitin snorted. I spun around. I did not like him judging you like that. What business of his was any of it?
“What. You’re not around to see, but it’s different now. They’re much better since he broke up with his girlfriend. No more bickering and he’s really sweet to her. I’m glad for them,” I said, convincing myself too as the words came out.
I was laying it on thick, but his acting like he knew anything about you or what was best for you was honestly pissing me off. I’d never noticed he could be so annoying.
Nitin paused. “Is that what he told her? He broke up with his girlfriend?” he said.
“Yes,” I snapped. “Last weekend.” I lifted the paddle off my lap and dipped it in again. “As you can imagine, that changes a lot.” My tone was clear: end of discussion.
Nitin cleared his throat. “Kayla.”
I whipped around, ready to explode. His sad expression snuffed the fuse, and my stomach sank.
“He didn’t break up with Meghan,” he said carefully. I stared. “Not from the way he was talking about her in the cabin last night.”
Nitin reddened and looked away. “He’s not . . . He’s not a great person, really.”
The boat rocked in the waves of a speed boat that flew past. I wanted to vomit.
He’d been feeding you lies and you’d swallowed them. You’d gobbled them up and asked for more.
“Are you sure?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head and swiveled to face forward. The sun glistened off the water and the breeze was still perfect, but it felt like the world had been shot to hell. Tears stung my eyes. The news wasn’t merely a gut punch. It seemed to reach down my throat and twist my guts right out. And if learning of Jackson’s betrayal affected me so badly, how was it going to affect you?
I sat in shock for a long moment. At some point Nitin had started paddling, but we must have been moving again for a while before I noticed. I gripped my paddle, readied the blade, and sliced it through the water.
We went all the way down to the boundary signs (“Ahoy, Camp Cavanick campers! Turn your vessels here”) and all the way back in silence. My arms ached. When we returned to shore, you and Jackson were nowhere in sight, but your canoe was back on the rack. My heart ached too.
We hung our life vests and stacked our paddles, and Nitin gave me an apologetic grima
ce. “You’re a good friend,” he said.
“Thanks,” I answered, not knowing if he meant to him or to you or in general or what. And what was I supposed to do with that? Did Nitin want me to tell you the truth that would hurt you? Was that the “good friend” thing to do? Or did he mean it was good of me to protect and defend you, even if that meant swallowing Jackson’s poison to spare you? It felt corrosive in my veins already. I didn’t want to share that feeling with you.
And yet. We’d never lied to each other. Friends owe friends the truth.
Hadn’t I just snapped at Nitin for basically second-guessing your right to decide for yourself? You didn’t need me to filter your reality. Wouldn’t holding this in cause more harm?
I don’t know. I don’t know what was right, or what could have been. If I hadn’t told you what Nitin said, might Jackson still be alive?
Stop. Don’t answer that.
Don’t.
Love,
Kayla
November 13
Channel 5 News
“There was a somber mood in the courthouse today as jurors heard testimony from two prosecution witnesses about the blue size-medium hooded sweatshirt allegedly belonging to Elaine Baxter, which was found under the steps to Sweetwater Cabin—the cabin Miss Baxter and fifteen other campers shared last summer—and which the state says was stained with Jackson Winter’s blood.
“Camp director Skip Pluta testified he recovered the hoodie from behind the two wooden steps to the girls’ cabin several days after the abrupt end to the camp session, where, he said, it appeared to have been stashed deliberately by someone attempting to hide it—perhaps intending to retrieve and destroy it later, or perhaps hoping it might stay there and never be found. When Pluta recognized the hoodie as potentially belonging to Miss Baxter—he recalled she wore an identical garment throughout the summer, and prosecutors submitted into evidence multiple official camp photos, which Pluta identified as being of Miss Baxter in what appears to be the hoodie in question—he immediately called the police, even before noticing several dark stains on its sleeves.
“Next, forensic scientist Kacey Proffert took the stand and walked the court through her analysis of several DNA samples taken from the hoodie—the bloodstains on which, she determined, are a clear match to Jackson Winter’s DNA. Proffert said the sweatshirt contained non-blood DNA samples from at least three other people, including Elaine Baxter, but that most of the DNA ‘by far’ was identifiable as belonging to either the victim or the defendant.
“The forensic expert testified she did not believe the presence of non-blood DNA from at least two other individuals to be unusual or suspicious, given the communal living situation in which the garment had been worn throughout the summer, where it easily would have come in contact with many other people, and been sent to the laundry at most once per week.
“In cross-examination, Baxter’s lawyer focused less on the DNA evidence and more on other, seemingly unrelated questions, such as grilling the camp director about the lack of bed checks at Camp Cavanick, and whether every other camper and counselor’s whereabouts on the night of the alleged murder could be accounted for.
“‘Can you tell me with certainty that there were no trespassers on the property the night of Jackson Winter’s death?’ the lawyer asked. ‘I cannot,’ the director replied, and the lawyer left it at that.
“The prosecutor is expected to call her final witnesses in the opening days of next week, after which we will finally hear the details of Elaine Baxter’s defense.
“Reporting live from Maplewash County Courthouse in Jaspertown, I’m Kay Douglass, Channel Five News.”
November 13, 9:52 p.m.
hey
can I ask you something?
Hi
Sure, of course
why were you avoiding us?
?
at the end
I mean
the last week or two of camp
you stopped hanging with L&J and me
I just felt like you were avoiding us or something
were you?
I’m sorry
I wasn’t avoiding you
I don’t know, I just freaked out I guess
about what?
About nothing. everything. I don’t know
It got weird
Don’t you think?
well, obviously
But before that
I mean
before he died
it seemed less fun
uncomfortable sometimes
I don’t know
I guess I just got sick of them and it was easier with other people
or something
I’m sorry
it wasn’t you
I didn’t think you would notice, to be honest
oh
ok
you were pretty wrapped up in Lainie and her shit
her shit???
Sorry
She and Jackson were a little much sometimes
mostly Jackson
But her too
It brought flashbacks of my uncle when he would visit
Jackson did
He was not a great guy
my uncle I mean
I shouldn’t compare them
I just needed to pull back
and I was becoming better friends with some other guys from our cabin so
I guess I switched to mostly hanging with them instead
I wonder all the time if I hadn’t if that would have changed things
I don’t think so
but I know what you mean
survivor’s guilt or whatever
Yeah
I shouldn’t have told you
about Meghan and him
it’s not your fault
Thanks for saying that
I mean it
thanks
It’s good to hear from you
yeah
take care
You too
November 13, 11:23 p.m.
can I ask you something else?
Okay
were you in love with her?
um
Weren’t we all, a little bit?
touché
I think no
not exactly
but I did wish I could protect her sometimes
from anything bad
If she needed that
More like brotherly love I guess
I didn’t do anything though
I believe you
but I believed her too
You don’t anymore?
I don’t know
I don’t know what to believe
I’m sorry
November 15
Dear Lainie,
Dr. Rita and I had a special bonus session yesterday to prepare me for seeing you again. It helped me think through what I might want to say, though I don’t think I’ll really know how tomorrow should go until I get there. Until I’m with you.
I’m nervous. It’s going to be weird in so many ways, making the drive back to camp (almost) but with the air cold and the leaves dead and gone, and everything different. It will be weird seeing you in a courtroom instead of a cabin, and with a bunch of adults who aren’t counselors around. It’s weird we won’t escape to the dock and won’t even get to talk, really. I won’t see any stars or the moon while I’m there. I’ll have to answer terrible questions.
My parents say there’s nothing for me to be nervous about. They told me to just answer the questions as best I can, and not worry about trying to protect you. That’s not my job, they say, even if I am your best friend—it’s your lawyer’s. And it’s not my job to decide what’s true—it’s the jury’s. My only job is to share what I know and be as honest and thorough as possible.
It’s funny how easy that sounds when they say it.
I’ll try. I remember the sixth rule of crime: Keep It Simple. The more straightforward the plan, the fewer ways to fuck it up. (Jackson never fully grasp
ed that. He always wanted us to go paddleboarding at night, or raid the kitchen, or really hitchhike into town. But you were the midnight mastermind, not him. If he wanted to fool around and get caught pulling off an elaborate scheme for the thrill of it, he was on his own. The simplicity of our nighttime escapes was part of the beauty of them.)
But “just tell the truth” isn’t as simple as people want it to be. Some truths are misleading. Some sit side by side with true lies. And many are subjective. That’s why this whole thing is so tough to untangle. (That and the fact that it’s a big fucking mess, and I’m a big fucking mess when I think about it. Ugh.)
There are things I know for sure are untrue, but that doesn’t stop them from feeling true. And vice versa: there are true, real things about what happened this summer that just seem wrong when I look at them. It’s like those “Which line is longer?” illusions where even once you know the two lines are the same length, you can’t help but see one as shorter. You’re supposed to see one as shorter. The illusion was designed that way.
How many of your deceptions were designed to mislead, and which ones fooled even you? How many did you want to believe? Does that matter?
Let’s be clear: You weren’t the only liar around. Can you be blamed for the ways you let Jackson deceive you? Can you be blamed for telling me lies you desperately wanted us both to swallow? Does it matter if we should have known better? Does it matter if, deep down, you did? Does that change how people should judge what happened when the truth was forced to light? Or how I should judge it?
Maybe. I don’t know.
Dr. Rita said, “What if I said to you, ‘You know what? We’ll never know. You will never learn what was really in her heart and mind—or his—or what happened that night. You just won’t.’ How does that feel? Does it change anything for you? Or maybe help you let go of some of this pressure to figure it all out and get it right?”
I stared at the carpet and watched the pattern blur to mush, then separate out into focus. I shrugged. “Not really. The jury will still decide, based in part on what I tell them. So it matters if I have things right or wrong, even if I only know a piece of it.”
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