I don’t see my daughter in any of them, even though she was there at the same time. Has she been erased, so her supposed death wouldn’t taint the camp’s image? I’m sure some families might not like their child’s name being paired with tragedy.
My heart aches at the thought. I hope she’s only absent from the pictures because she didn’t participate in any of the activities that have been captured on camera.
The last photo posted from that week is of a bonfire at late sunset that has been set up but not lit yet.
The caption reads:last bonfire in paradise.
I study every face around the circle and notice that some of the kids in the photo have been tagged.
I hesitate before tapping the first name.
I’m a grown woman sitting alone and scrolling through teenagers’ profiles. It makes me uncomfortable but not enough to stop.
But these kids were there at the same time as Sadie. They might have spoken to her.
Perhaps some became friends with her and noticed her unhappiness or listened to her complain about me and my rigid parenting style.
The first profile belongs to Lucille B., a girl with sun-streaked hair. Luckily, her profile is set to public and as soon as I land on it, it’s clear right away that she’s from money. Photos of her in her private school uniform, sailing trips around the world, luxury spa holidays, charity galas in expensive evening gowns, shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, horseback riding in Mexico, summers in the Hamptons, and, most recently, a trip to the Amalfi Coast.
Like I did on the camp’s page, I scroll back to the same week in July. There are hardly any group photos, mostly selfies ofher and her bright-green eyes laughing into the camera with the camp’s entrance behind her. They must have been taken on the day they arrived because I do know for a fact that they were not allowed phones.
Nothing else useful is posted from that week, so I head back to the camp’s account and click on another tagged name, a boy this time. Hunter is his name and he wears the same hairstyle the Ken doll sports. He has the skinniest arms I’ve ever seen on a boy his age.
He has a similar background to Lucille. Private school, lacrosse team, a summer in the Hamptons before this one. He also barely has any photos from that week. Only a few of him and other boys at the entrance of the camp and nothing else.
I click on more faces. Same result. Until after six profiles, I find one of a bonfire on the beach with the kids around it in a circle. The light is dim and uneven, casting shadows across the sand. Most of the kids are seated, faces trained at the flames.
Near the edge of the frame, a girl is sitting with her back to the camera. Her hair is falling straight down her back, dark and glossy and glowing like a halo at the edges thanks to the bonfire light. Her shoulders are narrow, her posture slightly tense, and her head is bent forward like she’s not interested in whatever is going on in front of her.
My pulse stutters and I zoom in, but that only makes the image blur. I can’t see enough to be sure. It could be anyone.
But something about the shape of her tugs at my heartstrings. Sadie used to do that sometimes, hanging her head if she considered something unworthy of her attention.
It might not be her at all, but I take a screenshot anyway.
Still, I go ahead and scan the names tagged in the photo. Sadie had an Instagram account, one I have scoured for clues since it happened, finding nothing useful. But her name isn’t tagged.
I lean back in the chair and force myself to think logically. If Sadie is alive, if she did not die in that water, where is she?
What if she ran away?
The thought I’ve circled around since receiving the photo sinks in, catching me off guard and tightening my chest.
Would that be possible? Six months ago, she was an angry teenager, pushing against every boundary I set.
I still recall the heated argument we had the night before she left with Scarlett.
“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to get the hell out of here!” she had said to me, her voice tight with fury, right before she’d stormed off and slammed her bedroom door and played her music so loud I could hear the lyrics in the living room over the hum of the TV.
I had thought it was nothing but the usual teenage outburst, along with many others that came before it. But now…what if that one triggered something?
Had I really pushed my daughter so far that she’d choose disappearing over coming home?
I look back at the bonfire photo. If she had made friends that week at the camp, would she have told them what she was planning?
“Judy?” a voice calls and I look up to see an older woman walking toward my table with a tentative smile.
Her name is Georgia Price, one of the librarians. She’s tall and composed with auburn hair that hangs in waves around her shoulders.
