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“Walter,” Rylie whispered.

“Maybe,” I said.

Sheriff Tate stared at the screen.

“Walter wore that style.”

“So did every sheriff in the county,” I reminded him.

“Not at the camp.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed toward the reflection.

“Walter never wore his uniform hat at night. He hated it. Said the brim blocked his vision.”

“Evan was a deputy,” Mace said.

“He would’ve worn a deputy’s hat, not a sheriff’s.”

“Robert?” Trigger asked.

“Robert wasn’t law enforcement yet.”

Rylie looked at the blurred figure.

“Then who is it?”

No one answered.

Will adjusted the image again.

Something shone near the figure’s chest.

A badge.

Not pinned to the shirt.

Held in his hand.

Emily’s letter had said one of the brothers carried Sheriff Mills’s badge.

I moved closer to the screen.

The man in the cabin wasn’t wearing a sheriff’s uniform.

He was wearing Sheriff Mills’s hat.

He was holding Sheriff Mills’s badge.

And he was watching nine teenage girls confess their secrets around the fire.

Mace looked at me.

“Emily took the photograph.”

“No,” Rylie said.