Louise, in Wells, awaits her transfer. She’ll be sent to Albion, hours to the west, near Rochester—farther away, in fact, than Louise has ever traveled.
She can’t see the rain outside, but she can hear it. She closes her eyes. Imagines Barbara in the woods: pictures her alive, then dead. Wills herself back to the cabin called Balsam, the night before Barbara Van Laar went missing. Pictures falling asleep in her little cot there, the faint lapping of Lake Joan in the near distance, the cool sharp air of evening. Camp Emerson, she realizes with a twinge of sadness, is the place she has felt the most at home in her life.
She wishes Jesse could go there. Just one summer, she wishes he could go.
“Donnadieu,” says a voice, and Louise gets to her feet. Ready for her transfer.
Instead, the officer unlocks the cell door.
“Somebody posted bail for you,” he says.
Tracy
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Three
Back in her father’s rental in Saratoga Springs, Tracy Jewell stands in the living room, a book in her hands. She is alone for the first time in three days, her father and Donna Romano having finally gone back to the track.
Now she lowers the blinds halfway and opens the windows halfway and points all the fans in the house in her direction. The pleasant smell of new rain comes in. She prepares an elaborate snack for herself, places it on the floor beside her. Two months ago—before she had ever heard of the Van Laar Preserve, or Camp Emerson—this was the way she anticipated spending her summer. Today, it feels like a letdown.
For an hour, her book goes unread.
She’s thinking of Barbara Van Laar, running through every exchange they had, racking her brain for evidence that might help to bring her home.
• • •
There is one memory she returns to over and over. In early August—just after their return from the Survival Trip, the week before Barbara went missing—Tracy and Barbara had been walking back from a woodsmanship class to begin their free hour, when Barbara had an idea.
“Follow me,” she said.
“Where?”
But Barbara only grinned, and veered east, toward the beach.
• • •
The day was one of the most beautiful of the entire session. Barbara didn’t stop at the beach, but swerved northward, toward the woods that bordered the beach, passing the boathouse along the way. The sun came through the pines in golden shafts, casting spotlights here and there across the ground. At a certain point, Tracy understood where they were going. Under normal circumstances she would have felt afraid—she was typically a follower of rules—but at Camp Emerson, under the influence of Barbara, she had begun to feel reckless.
At the conclusion of their brief, silent hike, they were facing a parking area, full of cars; beyond it, the southern wing of Self-Reliance. A side door was propped slightly open; through it strode a maid in uniform, wheeling a cart of laundry around a corner, out of sight.
It took Tracy a moment to notice movement on the lawn that sloped down to the lake, but a handful of voices drew her eye in that direction. A large number of people sat on chairs and chaise longues. They held glasses in their hands, and their voices were loud and merry. This, Tracy realized, was the hundredth-anniversary party that Barbara had mentioned.
Tracy withdrew immediately behind a tree.
“Barbara,” she whispered.
“Relax,” said Barbara. “It’s happy hour. They’re definitely sloshed.”
She strode forward, turning only when she realized Tracy hadn’t followed.
“Come on,” she said. “The only people we have to watch out for work for my parents. And they won’t tell even if they do see us.”
• • •
They entered the house through the open side door. Along the hallway were two rows of doors. In the ones left open, she could see made beds, framed paintings, animal skins, and mounted heads.
Every so often she took several running steps to keep up with Barbara, who was walking with intention toward what Tracy thought would be her room—but instead she led them into an enormous kitchen.
She opened the refrigerator and brought out several good things to eat. Then, setting it all before them on a nearby counter, she commenced.
“Dig in,” said Barbara. “Are you hungry? I’m always starving.”
Tracy followed suit, more cautiously. She had never before seen a girl eat with the abandon of Barbara Van Laar, who shoved food into her mouth with an open palm. She chewed loudly and swallowed vigorously. Tracy watched, fascinated.
When Barbara had taken her fill, she left everything out on the counter—“They won’t know it was us,” she said—and then retraced her steps down the same hallway through which they had entered.
Suddenly there came two voices, male and female. Unswervingly, Barbara opened a door on their right and pushed Tracy into a small broom closet. It was so small that there was only room for one.
“Stay cool,” said Barbara, closing the door behind her. Through the crack beneath the door, Tracy could see her shadow move away, and then the sound of a door hinge creaking softly someplace down the hall: Barbara taking shelter elsewhere, she supposed.
Tracy breathed as quietly as she could. She was terrified of being caught, being punished. If at the start of camp she had wanted to be sent home—well, that feeling was gone now, replaced by a firm desire to remain at Camp Emerson for the duration of the session. To learn everything she could learn from Barbara Van Laar.
The footsteps that accompanied the voices were growing louder. She held her breath, listening. Had they gone? She waited thirty seconds. Longer. Then, just as Tracy searched fumblingly for a doorknob in the dark, she heard one name, uttered by the woman: Peter. In her voice Tracy heard what she assumed must be desire.
More noises, inscrutable to Tracy, and then the quick continued patter of those footsteps, one perhaps chasing after the other, and then true silence for some time.
She jumped when the door swung open. Bright daylight made her squint. There was Barbara, standing before her, gesturing with her head in the direction of the side door.
She was holding a paper bag in her hands.
