T.J. looks down. “At first I was her—babysitter, I guess you’d call it. From the time she was born.”

“Here?”

“Here on the grounds, yes,” says T.J. “All summer long. Every summer. It’s what I was paid to do.”

“So you’ve been here your whole life?”

T.J. nods. “It’s my home.”

“What brought you to the Preserve to begin with?”

“My father was groundskeeper and camp director,” says T.J. “I took over both jobs when he began to lose his memory.”

Judy notes this.

“What about when the Van Laars were in Albany?” she asks.

“Well, I was in school for Barbara’s earliest years,” says T.J. “So I stayed here. But I never went to college or anything. So I was pretty free starting at seventeen, when Barbara was three. I’d travel with the family. Go down to Albany when the parents had to go out of town.”

“And you were close with Barbara.”

T.J. nods.

“We are. Yes.”

“Was Barbara a difficult child when she was young?”

T.J. laughs a little. There is a sort of ruefulness on her face, in her voice, that Judy suddenly finds unsettling.

“God, no,” says T.J. “She was the best kid. She and her brother both. Just nice, nice kids.”

Judy pauses.

“So you were close with her brother, too?”

“Yup. We were closer in age. I was twelve when he,” says T.J., and then stops. “When he disappeared. He was eight.”

It’s warm outside, but Judy suddenly feels cold.

“How would you describe the Van Laar children’s relationship with their parents?” asks Judy.

“Depends which kid you’re talking about. And which parent,” she adds.

“Let’s start with Bear.”

“Well, his mother loved him,” says T.J. “Loved him more than anything. Never been the same since he left.”

“And his father?”

“His father,” says T.J. “Now his father, that’s a hard one.”

She seems genuinely to be thinking of how to phrase something.

“You know, his father loved him too, in his way,” says T.J. “But it was like Mr. Van Laar thought of him as one of his bonds. Something only worth having around because of what it’ll become later. If that makes sense.”

Judy makes another note.

“What are you writing?” T.J. asks. “Are you writing about me?”

“Well, I’m writing down what you’re saying.”

“Who’s gonna see that?”

Judy hesitates. “For now, just me,” she says. “And possibly my colleagues in the BCI. But eventually, it’s possible that it could be used as some kind of evidence. And that would be a public record.”

T.J. nods. For a moment, Judy wonders if she’s going to clam up, stop talking.

She puts the pen down. Instantly, T.J. looks comforted.

“What about Barbara’s relationship with her parents?” says Judy.

T.J. thinks for a long time.

“I don’t know if nonexistent is the right word,” she says, at last. “But it’s close.”

Judy pauses. Stalling for time.

“Is that the reason she got close to you?” Judy asks, quietly.

She knows better than to show her whole hand, at this point. She wants to see what T.J. will say on her own.

“Maybe,” says T.J.

“How close would you say you were?”

“Well, that’s difficult to describe.”

“Let’s start here,” says Judy. “I know she came to camp this summer. Was that her idea, or yours?”

“Hers,” says T.J. “All hers. She wanted to get out of the house. Didn’t want to go to the big party they were planning.”

“Why do you think that was?”

T.J. takes a deep breath. “You know how much money the Van Laars have, right?”

“I have some idea of that. Yes.”

“You know they sent their daughter off to boarding school last year with two outfits and no winter coat? You know they give her no spending money?”