“There she is,” Lottie says. “My mother.”

I take a step closer to the photo, noticing the similarities between the woman posing with Franny and the one standing at my side. Same pale skin. Same Bette Davis eyebrows. Same heart-shaped faced that tapers to a pointed chin.

“Your mother knew Franny?”

“Oh, yes,” Lottie says. “They grew up together. My grandmother was the personal secretary to Franny’s mother. Before that, my great-grandfather was Buchanan Harris’s right-hand man. In fact, he helped create Lake Midnight. When Franny turned eighteen, my mother became her secretary. When she passed away, Franny offered the job to me.”

“Is this what you wanted to do?”

I’m aware of how rude the question sounds. Like I’m judging Lottie. In truth, I’m judging Franny for continuing the Harris tradition of using generations of the same family to make their own lives easier.

“Not exactly,” Lottie says with unyielding tact. “I was going to be an actress. Which meant I was a waitress. When my mother died and Franny offered me the job, I almost turned it down. But then I came to my senses. I was in my thirties, barely scraping by. And the Harris-Whites have been so kind to me. I even think of them as family. I grew up with them. I’ve spent more time here at Lake Midnight than Theo and Chet combined. So I accepted Franny’s offer and have been with them ever since.”

There’s so much more I want to ask. If she’s happy doing the same thing her mother did. If the family treats her well. And, most important, if she knows why Franny keeps photos of asylum patients in her desk.

“I think I see Casey in this one,” Lottie says farther down the wall, at a spot of pictures of Camp Nightingale during its prime. Groups of girls posing on the tennis court and lined up at the archery range, bows pulled back. “Right here. With Theo.”

She points to a photo of the two of them swimming in the lake. Theo stands waist-deep in the water, the telltale lifeguard whistle around his neck. Cradled in his arms—in the exact way he cradled me during my swimming lesson—is Casey. She’s slimmer in the picture, with a happy, youthful glow. I suspect it was taken when she was still a camper here.

Just above that picture is one of two girls in polo shirts. The sun is in their eyes, making them squint. The photographer’s shadow stretches into the bottom of the frame, like an unnoticed ghost swooping down on them.

One of the girls in the photograph is Vivian.

The other is Rebecca Schoenfeld.

The realization stops my heart cold. Just for a second or so. In that pulseless moment, I stare at the two of them and their easy familiarity. Wide, unforced smiles. Skinny arms tossed over shoulders. Keds touching.

This isn’t a photo of two girls who barely know each other.

It’s a picture of friends.

“I should go,” I say as I quickly gather my phone and charger. “You won’t tell Franny about this, will you?”

Lottie shakes her head. “Some things Franny’s better off not knowing.”

She also starts to leave, skirting around the desk and giving me roughly two seconds to lift my phone and snap a picture of Vivian and Becca’s photo. I then hurry out of the room, exiting the Lodge the same the way I came. At the front door, I literally bump into Theo, Chet, and Mindy. I bounce between the brothers. First Theo, then Chet, who grabs my arm to steady me.

“Whoa there,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say, holding up my phone. “I needed a charge.”

I push past them into the heart of camp. The morning lessons have ended, and girls drift among their cabins, the mess hall, and the arts and crafts building. When I reach Dogwood, I find the girls inside, indulging in some reading time. A comic book for Krystal and an Agatha Christie paperback for Miranda. Sasha flips through a battered copy of National Geographic.

“Where did you go?” Krystal says. “You never came back.”

“Sorry. I got tied up with something.”

I kneel in front of my hickory trunk and run my hands over the lid, feeling the ridges of all the names that had been carved before mine.

“What are you doing?” Miranda asks.

“Looking for something.”

“What?” Sasha says.

I lean to my right, my fingers tripping down the side of the trunk. That’s where I find it. Five tiny letters scratched into the hickory, a mere inch from the floor.

becca

“A liar,” I say.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Campfire. Fourth of July.

There was a charge in the air that night. A combination of heat, freedom, and the holiday. The campfire seemed higher, hotter. The girls surrounding it were louder and, I noticed, happier. Even my group of girls.

Whatever had caused the earlier drama in Dogwood was resolved by dinner. Vivian, Natalie, and Allison laughed and joked through the entire meal. Vivian said nothing when Natalie had an extra helping. Allison, astonishingly, cleaned her plate. I simply felt relieved that Franny was right. The storm had passed. Now they surrounded me beside the fire, basking in the orange warmth of the leaping flames.

“We’re sorry about earlier,” Vivian told me. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing,” echoed Allison.

“Nothing at all,” added Natalie.

I nodded, not because I believed them but because I didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were with me now, at the end of my lonely day.