Denny regards her for a while. Deciding whether to say something.

“You didn’t notice?” he says. “Didn’t hear the door or nothing?”

Louise feels a tightness in her throat—though she cannot possibly be about to cry, she thinks. She can’t remember the last time she cried.

“Were you in the cabin overnight?” says Denny.

Louise opens her mouth to produce a response, but no sound emerges.

Denny puts the notepad down then. Lays the pen gently on top of it.

“Look,” says Denny. “I’m really not supposed to give out any kind of guidance here. But for an old friend, I will.”

He leans toward her, lowers his voice.

“You don’t wanna get yourself in trouble here,” he says. “Don’t wanna say anything you can’t take back. Because if you lie,” he says, “that’ll be a problem for you later.”

Louise looks up at him. He’s a foot from her face. His mustache looks damp.

“There’s a girl the next room over,” he says. “She works with you, I think. I’m gonna talk to her next. If it turns out you two have different stories,” says Denny, “well, that looks bad. That raises questions.”

“I understand,” says Louise.

“You were a nice kid when I knew you,” says Denny. “I always liked you. I heard some people gave you a hard time when you got older, said things about you and all. I never believed ’em.”

Louise waits. “Thank you,” she says at last. She hates him in this moment. Hates his implication. Because most of what was said about Louise related to invented trysts with other students. And once, a teacher.

“That’s why I’m gonna give you some advice,” he says.

He stands up, tucks the pad and pen away.

“Ask for a lawyer,” he says. “And don’t say I’m the one who told you.”

Louise speaks without thinking.

“I have one already,” she says.

It feels good to say it, to watch his expression waver for a moment.

“Well, good,” he says. “Won’t have to find you a PD, then. Should the need arise.”

She looks at him blankly.

“You know what a PD is, don’t you?”

Silence.

“A public defender,” says Denny. “A free lawyer. Sounds like you won’t need one of those.”

Only then does Louise realize what she’s done.

Alice

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One

A nice ranger has placed a towel around Alice’s shoulders; after a while, he retrieves another one and places that around her, too. At one o’clock in the afternoon, she sits in an Adirondack chair in a patch of sunlight, shivering so badly that her teeth clack. She remembers this from Bear’s disappearance. It’s shock, someone told her then.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” says the ranger, crouching down, placing a hand on her knee. “We’ll find her, okay? That’s what all our training helps with.”

Alice nods once. She wants him to stay with her.

Several other rangers with bloodhounds are pacing the camp, looking for scents. Earlier, she was asked to produce a pair of Barbara’s used underwear to help the dogs. She had looked at the ranger requesting it, horrified, until he apologized.

“It’s really the most useful garment for the hounds,” he said.

She couldn’t do it herself. Instead she asked them to find a counselor. They could go through Barbara’s belongings on their own.

•   •   •

Now, Peter is in one of the camp buildings with some detective. He’s told her not to talk to anyone until Captain LaRochelle arrives from Albany. The same captain who oversaw Bear’s case.

Peter trusts him.

More to the point, he doesn’t trust anyone else.

Alice looks out at the lake. The truth is: she has no idea where Barbara could be. Everyone seems to be implying that she’s most likely run away, but Alice is worried that it might be something else.

•   •   •

Barbara has always been difficult.

As a toddler, she threw such terrible tantrums that Alice was concerned about what their Albany neighbors would think. At six, she showed no sign of stopping; no amount of yelling, or bribing, or spanking, or even slapping—Peter had tried this, a quick strike across the face when things got really out of hand—would quell them. Instead, Barbara would shriek ever louder, terrible screams that made it impossible to think.

Bear was never like that.

These episodes of Barbara’s were in the end the determining factor in their decision to send her away for school as early as they did. At seven years old, she was enrolled as a boarder at Emily Grange, where by all accounts she caused no problems—at first.

But lately they had been hearing something new.

In the middle of the last school year, there was a telephone call from the head of school, Susan Yoder. She was a formidable woman—a lesbian, thought Alice—who was said to be progressive. She was the first person Alice had ever met who requested the honorific Ms. She had invited Alice and Peter to campus to have a meeting with her in person: something they had never before been asked to do.

Peter was incensed. “For the amount we pay them,” he said, “one would think this person might understand what an imposition it is to ask a man to take time out of his workday.”

•   •   •

Ms. Yoder began her conversation with a note about “compassion”—a word she used frequently—a word Alice had never once heard used aloud in conversation, prior to that day.

And then she went on to describe what she referred to as Barbara’s “inappropriate” behavior on the school grounds.