The Last Time I Lied(12)

While all that was taking place, I received weekly emails from Lottie that filled in various details of my stay. The debut summer of the new Camp Nightingale planned to have roughly fifty-five campers, five counselors, and five specialized instructors made up of camp alumni. Just like in the past, none of the cabins had electricity. The camp was monitoring the threats of Zika, West Nile, and other mosquito-borne illnesses. I should remember to pack accordingly.

I took that last note to heart. When I was thirteen, the sudden notice about going to camp delayed our departure for hours. First there was the matter of finding my suitcase, which ended up being in the back of the hall closet, behind the vacuum cleaner. Then came the arduous task of packing, with me not knowing what to bring and my lack of preparation necessitating a trip to Nordstrom’s to pick up the things I lacked. This time around, I went overboard in the sporting goods store, snapping up items with the whirlwind intensity of a romantic comedy heroine in a shopping montage. Much of it was necessary. Several pairs of shorts. Heavy-duty socks and a sturdy pair of hiking boots. An LED flashlight with a wrist strap. Some of it was not, such as the waterproof case that fits over my iPhone like a condom.

Then there was the matter of my parents. Neglectful as they were when I was growing up, I knew they wouldn’t like the idea of my returning to Camp Nightingale. So I didn’t tell them. I simply called to say I’d be away for six weeks and that they should contact Marc in case of an emergency. My father half listened. My mother simply told me to have “such a wonderful time,” her words slurred from cocktail hour.

Now there’s nothing left for me to do but quell my growing anxiety by sorting through all the things I thought I’d need to help my search. There’s a map of Lake Midnight and the surrounding area; a satellite view of the same thing, courtesy of Google Maps; and a stack of old newspaper articles about the disappearance collected from the library and printed off the internet. I even brought along a dog-eared Nancy Drew paperback—The Bungalow Mystery—for inspiration.

I examine the map and satellite view first. From above, the lake resembles a giant comma that’s been tipped over. More than two miles from end to end, with a width ranging from a half mile to five hundred yards. The narrowest area is the eastern point, the location of the dam Buchanan Harris used to create the lake on that cold and rainy stroke of midnight. From there the lake flows west, skirting the edge of a mountain, following the path of the valley it replaced.

Camp Nightingale sits to the south, nestled in the middle of the lake’s gentle exterior curve. On the map, it’s just a tiny black square, unlabeled, as if fifteen years of disuse had left it unworthy of mention.

The satellite view offers more detail, all of it colored grainy shades of green by the library printer that spat it out. The camp itself is a rectangle of fern green, speckled with buildings in variations of brown. The Lodge is clearly visible, as are the cabins, latrine, and other buildings. I can even see the dock jutting out over the water, the white specks of two motorboats moored to its sides. A gray line of road leads out of camp to the south, eventually connecting with a county road two miles away.

One theory about the girls’ disappearance is that they walked to the main road and hitched a ride. To Canada. To New England. To unmarked graves when they climbed into the cab of a deranged trucker.

Yet no one reported seeing three teenage girls on the highway’s edge in the middle of the night, even after their disappearance became national news. No one anonymously confessed to giving them a ride. No traces of their DNA were ever found inside the rigs of drivers arrested for violent crimes. Plus, all their belongings were left behind, tucked safely inside their hickory trunks. Clothes. Cash. Brightly colored Nokia cell phones just like the ones my parents said I was too young and irresponsible to own.

I don’t think they planned to be gone for very long. Certainly not forever.

I put away the map and tackle the newspaper clippings and internet articles, none of which offer anything new. The details of the disappearance are as vague now as they were fifteen years ago. Vivian, Natalie, and Allison vanished in the early-morning hours of July 5. They were reported missing by yours truly a little before 6:00 a.m. A camp-wide search that morning turned up nothing. By the afternoon, the camp’s director, Francesca Harris-White, had contacted the New York State Police, and an official search began. Because of the girls’ high-profile parents—Vivian’s, especially—the Secret Service and the FBI joined the fray. Search parties of federal agents, state troopers, and local volunteers scoured the woods. Helicopters skimmed the treetops. Bloodhounds primed with scents from clothes the girls had left behind sniffed a trail around camp and back again, their keen sense of smell leading them in frustrating circles. Little was found. No footprints leading into the forest. No wispy strands of hair snagged on low-hanging branches.

Another team of searchers headed to the water, even though they were stymied by the lake itself. It was too deep to dredge, too filled with downed trees and other underwater remnants of its days as a valley to dive safely. All they could do was crisscross Lake Midnight in police rescue boats, knowing there was nothing left to rescue. If the girls were in the lake, surely only corpses would be found. The boats returned empty-handed, as everyone suspected they would.

The only trace of the girls anyone ever found was a sweatshirt.

Vivian’s sweatshirt, to be precise. White with Princeton spelled out in orange across the chest. I’d seen her wear it to the campfire a few nights before the disappearance, which is how I was able to identify it as belonging to her.