The Last Time I Lied(34)

That’s another, different lesson I learned in this lake.

I get to my feet a few yards from shore and wade the rest of the way. Becca has left the dock and is now directly in front of me, gesturing for me to stop. I indulge her, standing shin-deep in the water as she clicks off a few more shots.

“Sorry,” she says once she’s finished. “The light was so perfect, I couldn’t resist. Such a beautiful sunrise.”

She holds the camera in front of me as I dry off, scrolling through the photos. Of the last one, she says, “This one’s the keeper.”

In the picture, I’ve risen from the lake, water streaming down my body, backlit by the sunrise. I think Becca was going for something fierce and empowering. A woman emerging victorious from the surf, now determined to conquer land. But instead of fierce, I simply look lost. As if I’ve just woken up in the water, confused by how I’d gotten there. It makes me feel so self-conscious that I quickly reach for my robe and wrap it tight around me.

“Please delete that.”

“But it looks great.”

“Fine,” I say. “Just promise me it won’t end up on the cover of National Geographic.”

We settle onto the grass and stare out at the water, which reflects the pinkish-orange sky so perfectly it’s hard to tell which is which. At least Becca was right about that. The sunrise is indeed beautiful.

“So you’re an artist,” she says. “I read about your gallery show.”

“And I’ve seen your photographs.”

Having stated the obvious, we settle into an awkward silence. I pretend to adjust the sleeves of my robe. Becca fiddles with her camera strap. We both keep an eye on the sunrise, which has now gained a few streaks of gold.

“I can’t believe I’m back here,” Becca eventually says. “I can’t believe you’re back here.”

“You and me both.”

“Listen, I’m sorry for acting weird yesterday. I saw you in the mess hall and momentarily freaked out. I don’t know why.”

“I do,” I say. “Seeing me brought back a hundred different memories. Some of which you weren’t prepared to face.”

“Exactly.”

“It happens all the time to me,” I admit. “Almost nonstop. Everywhere I look, a memory seems to be lurking.”

“I’m assuming Franny lured you back,” Becca says.

I nod, even though it’s not entirely the truth.

“I volunteered,” Becca says. “I mean, I already knew Franny was going to ask. She somehow managed to track me down during one of my rare returns to New York and invited me to lunch. As soon as she started talking about Camp Nightingale, I knew what she had planned. So I jumped at the chance.”

“I took a little more convincing.”

“Not me. For the past three years, I’ve been living out of a suitcase. Staying in one place for six weeks definitely had its appeal.” Becca stretches out on the grass, as if to prove how relaxed she truly is. “I don’t even mind that I’m bunking with three teenagers. It’s worth it if I can get a camera into their hands and possibly inspire them. Plus, this feels like a vacation after some of the horrible shit I’ve seen.”

She lifts her chin to the sunrise and closes her eyes. In that light clenching of her eyelids, I can see that she, too, is haunted by the unknown. The only difference between us is that she’s returned to Camp Nightingale to forget. I’m here to remember.

“Yesterday, when I saw you in the mess hall, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Let me guess,” Becca says. “It’s about that summer.”

I give a curt nod. “Do you remember much?”

“About the summer or the . . . ?”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. It’s almost like she’s afraid to utter that final word. I’m not.

“The disappearance,” I say. “Did you notice anything strange the night before it happened? Or maybe the morning I realized they were gone?”

A memory arrives. A bad one. Me at the lake, telling Franny that the girls were missing as other campers gathered around. Becca stood in the crowd, watching it all unfold through her camera, the shutter clicking away.

“I remember you,” she says. “How frantic and scared you were.”

“Other than that, you don’t recall anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nope.” The word comes out too fast and pitched too high. Like a chirp. “Nothing.”

“And how well did you know the girls in my cabin?”

“Allison, Natalie, and Vivian?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You had all spent the previous summer here. I thought you might have known them.”

“I didn’t. Not really.”

“Not even Vivian?” I think of Becca’s warning my first morning at camp. Don’t be fooled. She’ll turn on you eventually. “I thought the two of you might have been friends.”

“I mean, I knew her,” Becca says. “Everyone here knew Vivian. And everyone had an opinion.”

“What was the general consensus?”

“Honestly? That she was kind of a bitch.”

I flinch at her tone. It’s so surprisingly harsh that no other reaction is appropriate. Becca sees it happen and says, “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”