by Riley Sager
Alarm flares in my chest, calming a second later once I understand what’s happening. The white glow is sunlight. Its source is a minuscule crack in the shower wall. The same crack I peered through to spy on Theo fifteen years ago.
I let out a breath, feeling both foolish for not realizing it sooner and relieved that it’s not something worse, like another camera. One is enough to make me seriously paranoid. So much so that I consider waiting for another stall to open up. I decide against it for the simple reason that I’m already inside this one with the water running. And thanks to a morning of heavy use, it’s not getting any warmer.
Besides, Vivian was the only person who knew about that crack. She told me so herself.
So I stay where I am, showering as fast as possible. I give my hair a quick shampoo and an even quicker rinse, closing my eyes as the soapy water cascades down my face. I enjoy that moment of temporary blindness. It allows me to pretend, just for a moment, that I’m thirteen again and experiencing Camp Nightingale for the very first time. That Vivian, Natalie, and Allison are safe within the confines of Dogwood. That the events of fifteen years ago never happened.
It’s a nice feeling. One that makes me want to linger under the shower’s spray. But the water keeps getting colder, turning from lukewarm to the wrong side of chilly. In a minute or two, it’ll be as cold as Lake Midnight.
I finish rinsing my hair and open my eyes.
The point of light on the door is gone.
I spin around, frantically checking the shower wall behind me. No light peeks through the crack. It’s gone, eclipsed by something outside.
No, not something.
Someone.
Right on the other side of the wall.
Watching me.
I yelp and rush to the door, fumbling for my towel and robe in the process. By the time I’m pushing my way out of the stall, the light has reappeared, both through the wall and onto the door as it swings open. Whoever was there is now gone.
That doesn’t stop me from yanking on my robe and clutching it tight around me. I rush through the now-empty latrine, bursting through the door with the hope of catching whoever had been watching me.
No one is outside. The entire vicinity is deserted. The closest people I see are two campers more than a hundred yards away. Late for breakfast, they hurry to the mess hall, ponytails bobbing.
I’m the only one here.
Just to be safe, I do a quick, awkward circle around the building, seeing nothing. By the time I’m back at the latrine door, I start to wonder if I’m mistaken and that what I saw was merely someone leaning against the building, obliviously covering the crack in the wall.
Yet that explanation doesn’t quite make sense. If it had been unintentional, then the person responsible wouldn’t have left the moment I realized they were there. They would be here still, no doubt wondering why I’ve rushed outside dripping wet, soap remnants sticky on my skin.
So I think of other possibilities. A low-flying bird swooping past the latrine. Or maybe those late-for-breakfast campers rushing by. There’s even a chance it might not have been anything at all. I try to estimate how long the light through the crack was blocked. Not long. A fraction of a second at most. My eyes had been closed a lot longer than that. When I opened them again, it would have taken a second or two for them to adjust to the dimness of the shower stall. Maybe that’s all it was—my vision catching up to reality.
By the time I’m back at Dogwood, I’ve concluded that’s what it was. A trick of the light. A brief optical illusion.
At least that’s what I force myself to believe.
Lying to myself.
It’s the only falsehood I allow.
* * *
—
The first painting lesson of the summer is held outside, away from the arts and crafts building and its crowd of campers. Despite reassuring myself that it never happened, I remain shaken by my experience in the shower. Paranoia clings to me like cold sweat, making me hyperalert to even the briefest of glances.
When Sasha suggests we paint the lake, I embrace the idea. It temporarily soothes my anxiety while giving the dozen girls who arrived for the lesson something better to paint than the still life I had planned.
Now they stand at their easels, which have been carried to the lawn behind the Lodge, facing the lake. Palettes in hand, all of them contemplate their blank canvases, slightly nervous, fingers absently fiddling with the brushes poking from their cargo shorts. I’m nervous, too, and not just from the stress of the morning. The way the girls stare at me, seeking guidance, is intimidating. Marc was right. This is definitely not in my wheelhouse.
It helps slightly that the girls from Dogwood are here, including Krystal with her promised sketchpad and a set of charcoal pencils. They’re familiar enough to give me a boost of confidence before I begin.
“The assignment this morning is to paint what you see,” I announce. “Just look out at the lake and paint it as only you see it. Use whatever colors you want. Use any techniques you want. This isn’t school. You won’t be graded. The only person you need to please is you.”
As the girls paint, I walk behind them, checking their progress. Watching them paint calms me. Some—such as Sasha and her meticulously clean lines—even show promise. Others, like Miranda’s defiantly blue brushstrokes, do not. But at least they’re painting, which is more than I’ve done for the past six months.
When I reach Krystal, I see that she’s sketched a superhero in tight spandex and a flowing cape standing before an easel. The hero’s face is my own. Her muscular body most definitely is not.
“I think I’m going to name her Monet,” Krystal says. “Painter by day, crime fighter by night.”
“What’s her superpower?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Class ends when a bell clangs from the mess hall, signaling lunchtime. The girls put down their brushes and scurry off, leaving me alone to gather up their canvases and easels. I move the canvases first, carrying them back to the arts and crafts building two by two so as not to smudge the still-wet paint. Then I return for the easels, finding them already in the process of being collected.
The gatherer is the maintenance man I saw fixing the roof of the arts and crafts building when I arrived. He’s come from the toolshed on the edge of the lawn. Its door sits open, offering a glimpse of a lawn mower, a handsaw, chains hanging on the wall.
“I figured you could use some help,” he says.
His voice is gruff, thickened by a trace of Maine accent.
“Thanks.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Emma, by the way.”
Instead of shaking my hand, the man nods and says, “I know.”
He doesn’t tell me how he knows this. He doesn’t need to. He was here fifteen years ago. He knows the score.
“You were here before, right?” I say. “I recognized you when I arrived.”
The man folds another easel, drops it onto a growing pile of them. “Yep.”
“What did you do in the time the camp was closed?”
“I don’t work for the camp. I work for the family. Doesn’t matter if the camp is open or closed, I’m still here.”
“I see.”
Not wanting to feel useless, I collapse the last remaining easel and hand it to him. He adds it to the stack and scoops up all of them at once, carrying six under each arm. Impressive, considering I could have only managed one or two.
“Can I help carry some of those?” I say.
“I got ’em.”
I step out of his way, revealing several splotches of paint that mar the grass. White and cerulean and a few dots of crimson that unnervingly resemble drops of blood. The maintenance man sees them and grunts his disapproval.
“Your girls made a mess,” he says.
>
“It happens when you’re painting. You should see my studio,”
I give him a smile, hoping it will appease him. When it doesn’t, I remove the rag hanging from my back pocket and dab at the grass. “This should do the trick,” I say, even though it does the opposite, spreading the paint in widening smears.
The man grunts again and says, “Mrs. Harris-White doesn’t like messes.”
Then he’s off, carting away the easels as if they weigh nothing at all. I remain where I am, attempting a few more futile dabs at the grass. When that doesn’t work, I simply pluck the blades from the parched earth and toss them into the air. They catch the dull breeze and scatter, rolling on the wind and out over the lake.
13
Before heading to lunch, I return to the arts and crafts building to root through Casey’s supplies. I don’t find what I’m looking for among the bins of wood glue and colored markers, so I head to Paige’s pottery station. A dime-size chunk of wet clay sits on one of the pottery wheels. Perfect for what I have planned.
“Shouldn’t you be at lunch?”
I whirl around to see Mindy in the doorway, her arms crossed, head tilted. She gives me a too-big smile as she steps inside. Pretend friendliness.
I smile, too. Pretending right back. “I had some things to finish up in here.”
“You do pottery as well?”
“I was just admiring what you’ve done to the place,” I say, curling my fingers around the bit of clay to hide it from her. I’d rather not explain to Mindy what I intend to do with it. She’s suspicious enough as it is. “It looks incredible.”
Mindy nods her thanks. “It was a lot of work and a lot of money.”
“It really shows.”
The extra compliment works. Mindy’s gritted-teeth smile melts into something that almost resembles a human expression. “Thanks,” she says. “And I’m sorry for acting so suspicious. I’m just on high alert now that camp’s in full swing.”
“No worries. I get it.”
“Everything needs to go as smooth as possible,” Mindy adds. “Which is why you should probably get to the mess hall now. If campers don’t see you there, they’ll think they can start skipping lunch, too. We lead by example, Emma.”
First, I got a warning from the groundskeeper. Now here’s one from Mindy. And it definitely is a warning. I’m supposed to tread lightly and not make any messes. In short, do the opposite of what I did last time I was here.
“Sure,” I say. “Going there now.”
It’s a lie. But a justifiable one.
Instead of heading to the mess hall, I make my way to the latrine. A few stragglers mill about the front door, waiting for friends to accompany them to lunch. After they’re all gone, I head to the side of the building, seeking out the crack on the exterior wall. Once I find it, I stuff a bit of clay between the two planks, covering the crack.
The irony of the act isn’t lost on me. Fifteen years ago, I’d peered through this very crack, watching Theo without his knowledge or consent. While I’d like to blame that on youth and naïveté, I can’t. I was thirteen. Old enough to know that spying on Theo was wrong. Yet I did it anyway.
Now no one can look inside. One act of atonement down. Many more to go.
* * *
—
When I finally do reach the mess hall, I find Theo waiting for me outside, a wicker basket at his feet. It’s an unexpected sight. One that makes me irrationally think the mere memory of my long-ago transgression summoned his appearance. That after all these years, he somehow found out I had watched him. I stop a few steps short of him, bracing for confrontation. Instead, Theo announces, “I’m going on a picnic. And I thought you might like to come along.”
“What’s the occasion?”
He nods toward the mess hall doors. “Does one need a special occasion to skip the horror of whatever’s being served in there?”
He says it with his brows arched, aiming for levity. But the same tension from last night is still present. Theo feels it, too. I can see it in the apprehensive twitch at the corners of his smile. A knot of guilt twists in my chest. Now there’s no doubt he’s forgiven me. What I don’t understand is why.
Still, a picnic lunch does sound appealing. Especially because Mindy wouldn’t like the idea one bit.
“Count me in,” I say. “My taste buds thank you.”
Theo lifts the basket and leads me away from the mess hall. Rather than go to the sloped lawn behind the Lodge, where I assumed we’d head, he instead guides me past the cabins and latrine and into the woods.
“Where are you taking me?”
Theo grins back at me before entering the forest. “Someplace special.”
Although there’s no path for us to follow, he walks with purpose, as if he knows exactly where he’s going. I trail behind him, stepping over downed branches and crunching through fallen leaves. The idea of being led into the woods by Theo would have made my thirteen-year-old heart sing. Even now my pulse quickens a bit as I ponder the strange possibility that Theo might be interested in me. Young Emma would certainly think he was. Cynical, adult me highly doubts it. He couldn’t. Not after everything I’ve done. Yet here we are, whisking through the forest.
Eventually, we come to a small clearing so unexpected that I force myself to blink just to make sure it’s real. The area is a small circle cleared of dead leaves and underbrush. In its place is a patch of soft grass punctuated in spots by clusters of wildflowers. A halo of sunlight pours through the gap in the trees, catching the pollen drifting in the air and making it look as though a light snow is falling. A round table sits in the middle of the clearing, similar to the one where Franny and I had lunch in her fantastical greenhouse. And just like at that months-ago meal, Franny is present, already seated at the table with a napkin across her lap.
“There you are,” she says with a warm smile. “Just in time, too. I’m positively famished.”
“Hi,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as surprised as I feel. More heat spreads across my cheeks—a combination of disappointment that this picnic isn’t some romantic gesture on Theo’s part and embarrassment that I ever thought it might be. I feel something else, too. Apprehension. Franny’s surprise appearance tells me that this isn’t an impromptu picnic. Something else is going on.
Not helping is the presence of six marble statues arranged on the outskirts of the space, almost tucked into the trees, like silent witnesses. Each statue is of a woman in artful stages of half-dress. They’re frozen in unnatural poses, their arms raised, hands open, as if waiting for small birds to perch on their delicate fingers. Others carry baskets overflowing with grapes, ripe apples, sheaths of wheat.
“Welcome to the sculpture garden,” Franny says. “One of my grandfather’s more fanciful ideas.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, even though the opposite is true. While beautiful from a distance, the clearing gives off a creepier vibe once I’m seated in its center. The statues bear the scars of years spent exposed to the elements. The folds of their togas are crusted with dirt. Some have cracks running up their sides and chips in their otherwise flawless skin. One statue’s face is stained by moss. All have blank eyes. It’s as if they’ve been blinded. Punished for seeing something they shouldn’t have.
“You don’t need to be polite,” Theo says as he places the picnic basket on the table and starts to unpack it. “It’s creepy as hell. At least, I think so. I hated coming here as a kid.”
“I’ll admit it’s not to everyone’s taste,” Franny says. “But my grandfather was proud of it. And so it must remain.”
She gives a helpless shrug, drawing my attention to the statue directly behind her. Its face is exquisite, with fine-boned features and a daintily elegant chin. Yet whoever sculpted it had added an extra layer of emotion to the statue’s face. Its lifeless eyes are wider than they should be and sit beneath a
pair of dramatically arched brows. Its rosebud lips are parted ever-so-slightly, either in ecstasy or in surprise. I suspect it’s the latter. The statue looks, for lack of a better word, startled.
“Lunch is served,” Theo announces, snapping my attention from the statue to the table. A plate bearing an open-faced sandwich of smoked salmon heaped with crème fraîche, capers, and dill now sits in front of me. Definitely not what the others are currently being served in the mess hall. When Theo pours me a glass of prosecco, I take an extra-long sip in an effort to calm my nerves.
“Now that we’re all cozy,” Franny says, “I think it’s time to reveal why we’ve brought you here under such mysterious circumstances. I thought it might be a good idea to have our conversation in relative privacy.”
“Conversation?”
“Yes,” Franny says. “There’s an important matter Theo and I would like to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” I say it while cutting into my sandwich, pretending to be calm when I’m anything but. Apprehension clings to my insides. “What is it?”
“The camera outside your cabin,” Franny says.
I freeze, a forkful of smoked salmon poised halfway to my mouth.
“We know you’ve seen it,” Theo says. “We watched the footage this morning.”
“To be completely frank, we were hoping it wouldn’t be noticed,” Franny adds. “But now that it has, I do hope you’ll give us the chance to explain why it’s there.”
I set my fork on my plate. Any appetite I might have had is gone. “I’d certainly appreciate one. I didn’t see any others around the camp.”
“That’s because it’s the only one, dear,” Franny says.
“How long has it been there?”
“Since last evening,” Theo says. “Ben installed it during the campfire.”
At first, the name is unfamiliar to me. Then I remember the groundskeeper. No wonder he was acting so strangely when gathering up those easels.