I knew it wasn’t difficult to figure out my email address. The public email accounts for the hospital all had the same format. First name, last name, followed by our hospital domain. But I still cringed to see my inbox full of messages from addresses I knew and didn’t know alike.

Despite myself, I read them all, to arm myself for what was to come.

That initial article must’ve been picked up for wider distribution through the night. Journalists requesting interviews and quotes, people coming out of the woodwork in a very different way this time.

I paused at the email from the girl in high school. I remembered. Well, I remembered she was the reason I got sent home from school, mandatory meetings with the therapist—twisting the story to turn herself into a victim instead of the instigator.

Victim, endurance, triumph.

Shuffle the roles, craft your own story.

Or maybe that was just what she chose to remember after all this time—that she’d once been thrown into a locker room wall. Not that she had baited me, taunting me, blocking my exit from the locker room.

The cinder-block walls and the rows of lockers, no windows, no doors. Just that thick humidity and one way out, and a cold sweat breaking out, my skin rising in goose bumps—in warning. My vision turning hazy until I remembered I wasn’t a six-year-old girl stuck underground anymore, waiting to be saved. I needed to get out in a way that took over everything, body and mind alike. The need for an exit superseding all else, including the person blocking my way.

I hit “delete” on message after message, until I reached the note from a name I hadn’t seen in a long time: Emma Lyons.

She’d been a local reporter covering the search and rescue when her timely interview with my mother had elevated her to part of the national story. It had made her career. I checked the photos on my phone of the interview transcripts Nathan had in that file: Emma had been with my mother when the news broke; Emma Lyons had been on scene as I was rescued; she had landed the single interview with Sean Coleman afterward.

Then she’d been everywhere.

The footage was linked to in every online story that followed. I watched those videos myself now, from the hotel bed:

That woman in the blue dress, walking through the brush. Crossing some barrier in that moment, poised and wild at the same time. Her heels sinking into the mud. A streak of dirt across her arm.

Afterward, Emma Lyons went on to give interviews herself, an expert on those three harrowing days. There was a soothing tone to her voice, a Southern lilt—something she never tried to hide.

There were other reporters, of course. Different programs, different stations. But she’d been the one to deliver the news to my mother; it had granted her an elevated role. She became the media face of the story—a thing played back as much as the rescue itself.

I responded to her now, thinking it was too early to call. I do need your help. Did you ever hear about Sean Coleman’s son? I left my cell number at the bottom of the email, then returned to watching the other videos.

Her interview with Sean Coleman was so brief—he looked so young, so unsure. A deer caught in the headlights, with no idea how he’d found himself there. My heart sank, watching him then, so alive. No one asked about his life. There was no indication that there’d been a nine-year-old and wife at home.

Then I clicked over to the famous clip—the one where Emma was interviewing my mother just as the news came through. I knew the words by heart, but this time, I focused on my mother’s face. Knowing, with finality, that I would never see it again.

The image was so pixelated, a video from twenty years earlier. Her hands fidgeted as she spoke, and she gripped the handles of a tan tote bag slung over her shoulder. Her body turned slightly to the left, and I froze the frame. Rewound it, watched again.

That tote—it had been part of a fund-raising effort by the volunteer center. My school photo, with the generic blue background. The words Have You Seen Me? printed below, along with the tip number. She was holding it in front of her, so the camera could see.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

That tote, in the box. In my house. Old and tan, with the bluegray smudge—in the place my photo once had been. Had she kept it all this time? Both the tote and that bracelet, the things she’d held on to above all else?

My phone rang, a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said.

“My God, is it really you?” Her voice was deeper, a little raspy, but I recognized the lilt right away. I’d just been listening to her.

“I know you’ve tried to reach me in the past,” I said. “I’m sorry for never getting back to you. But I’m willing to give you an interview in exchange for your help.” I knew there was always a trade: Every story had a value.

“Honey,” she said, “I don’t want your story. Honestly, I was hoping I’d never hear your name again, and I could go on imagining you were off living your life somewhere, away from all of this. All of us.”

“That was my hope, too,” I said. “I’m sure you saw what’s happening, but some things have come up . . . some things I need to ask you about.”

“Of course. Arden—Olivia,” she said, correcting herself. “Look, I know I emailed you, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to do this face-to-face. I need to make sure it’s really you I’m talking to. I’m not interested in providing more information to the cycle.”

“I understand,” I said.

“So, you’re in North Carolina, is it?”

“That’s where I’m living. But I’m actually . . . I’m on my way to Widow Hills. I was hoping to get some answers there.”

“If you have some time to spare, I’m about two hours outside. Must be on your way. If you want to stop, maybe I can answer your questions.”

THE ADDRESS EMMA LYONS gave me sent me to the outer suburbs of Lexington, an area with rolling hills, farmland, and a rich history. Her home was a white colonial with a simple stone fountain in the front and a small circular drive surrounded by tall hedges. The iron gates were open, and as I pulled into the drive, she was already stepping out the front door, barefoot, with a little white dog at her feet.

Her hair had been cut shorter, and she wore tan shorts and a pale orange blouse. She looked so different from her television personality. Her smile was the same, though.

“Well, look at you,” she said as I exited the car. “I mean, I wouldn’t recognize you on the street. You’ve gone and grown up.” The twenty years had aged her, but the heart of her was the same. She was still thin, but more sculpted than soft now. Without the heavier makeup, her eyes looked smaller, the wrinkles giving her a new authenticity. She had to be in her mid-fifties. “Hate to ask, but can I see your ID before we get started?”

I handed her my driver’s license, didn’t blame her for asking. I’d done my best to hide Arden Maynor away.

Her eyes flicked from my photo to my face, and I pulled up my left sleeve. “Can’t fake this part,” I said, and she frowned at the long white scar, jagged down my shoulder.

“Come in, come in,” she said, gesturing me up the steps, the little white dog following behind.

She led me to the dining room, just off the foyer. There was already a pitcher of lemonade out on the table, a tray of sandwiches: a true hostess. “Figured you might be hungry.” She poured me a glass, hand faintly shaking, and I realized she was nervous.