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I looked toward Will.

Pink fingernail polish.

Hair brushed.

Women carefully cared for before they died.

The similarities crawled down my spine.

"Did Emma say anything?"

"No."

"Did Emily?"

"She kept telling her..."

Rylie squeezed her eyes shut.

"'It's okay.'

"'I'm going to get you out.'"

Mace slowly pushed away from the wall.

"Get her out from who?"

"I don't know."

"Did Emily tell anyone?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Rylie looked at the old photograph.

"She didn't trust anyone."

Sheriff Tate folded his arms.

"Even me?"

"I don't think she knew who she could trust."

Will quietly slid the Polaroid beneath his scanner.

"I'm going to enlarge this."

Nobody answered.

The image slowly filled his computer screen.

Cabin Nine.

Emma.

The blanket.