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.

She looked enraged.

What happened? Tracy mouthed, but Barbara only shook her head furiously and strode off.

Tracy followed her silently, glancing left and right, gulping the house with her eyes.

She wanted to see Barbara’s room. She wanted to see the rest of the house. She wanted to know more about what she had heard, those whispering voices.

But Tracy’s curiosity about all of these things was overruled by her discretion. She understood instinctively that Barbara would not appreciate questions along these lines, and so she said nothing, even after they’d reached the woods. Tracy panted as she walked. At a certain point—right before they reached the beach—Barbara finally stopped and turned.

“They painted my room,” she said. “Those motherfuckers painted my room.”

The word felt like a slap. Tracy had read it, but she’d never heard it spoken.

“I’m sorry,” she said—though she didn’t fully understand.

“All that work,” said Barbara. “All that work.”

She sank down into a squat. Put her face in her hands.

Slowly, Tracy lowered herself as well.

“What work?” she said, after so much time had passed that her knees had begun to throb.

But Barbara only continued with her rant.

“That’s probably why they let me come to camp,” said Barbara. “So they could get in there and paint it over without my permission.”

She stood up and set off again abruptly.

“Pink,” she said. “They painted my damn room pink.”

“Why do you think they did it?” Tracy asked. She was, once again, running a little to keep up with her.

“Oh, for their guests,” said Barbara. “For the party. God forbid someone witness any creativity in that house.”

She spun around again. The bag she was holding in her hands had become a weapon, swinging at the end of her arm like a bludgeon.

“The funny part is,” said Barbara, “they invited all these artists and writers and actors. But they’re the entertainment. The decoration. No one takes them seriously.”

•   •   •

They reached Balsam moments before the end of free hour. Louise and Annabel were waiting to lead them to the commissary for dinner.

So grateful was Tracy not to have been caught that it took her several hours to remember something. After lights-out, she lay in her bunk, growing more and more curious, until finally she couldn’t stop herself. She leaned her head over the side of the bunk.

“Barbara,” Tracy whispered. “What did you bring back in that bag?”

There came a little pause.

And then: “What bag?” whispered Barbara, in the dark.

Louise

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

Louise, freshly bailed out of jail, once again finds herself in a car with Denny Hayes—in the front seat, this time. Though she has tried to persuade Hayes otherwise, he’s driving in the direction of her mother’s house.

One of the conditions of her pretrial release is that she will remain at one known address, and adhere to a six o’clock curfew. The only address Louise could provide upon being taken into custody was her mother’s.