PART 3
My heart sank.
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain. We discovered her there three nights before the end of camp.”
I looked back at Mia.
She immediately looked away.
That frightened me more than anything the director had said.
Because Mia wasn’t a rebellious child.
She wasn’t the kind of teenager who sneaked out for fun, broke rules to impress friends, or laughed when adults confronted her.
If she had done something wrong, there was usually a reason.
“What was she doing inside?” I asked.
The director hesitated.
“She was looking through a locked cabinet.”
“A locked cabinet?”
“Yes.”
I felt my face grow warm.
“Did she steal something?”
“No.”
“Did she damage anything?”
“No.”
“Then what did she do?”
The director took a slow breath.
“She found something.”
My confusion deepened.
“What?”
“That is precisely the problem.”
She reached into a folder she was carrying and pulled out several printed photographs.
She handed them to me.
I looked down.
The first photograph showed a small wooden cabin.
The second showed a group of children standing near the lake.
The third showed an older man sitting alone on a bench.
I looked up.
“What am I looking at?”
“The photographs were inside the locked cabinet.”
I stared at her.
“And Mia found them?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she look for them?”
“She claims she wasn’t looking for them.”
The director paused.
“She says she was looking for a first-aid kit.”
I blinked.
“A first-aid kit?”
“One of the younger campers was injured. Mia said she couldn’t find a counselor, so she went looking for supplies.”
That sounded exactly like something my daughter would do.
“But why was the first-aid kit inside the staff office?”
“It wasn’t.”
I frowned.
“Then why did she go there?”
The director’s expression changed.
“She says she heard someone crying.”
A chill ran through me.
“Someone crying?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
I stared at the photographs again.
There was something strange about them.
The children in the pictures were smiling, but the photographs looked old.
Very old.
I turned one over.
On the back was a handwritten date.
July 14, 2009.
I looked at the director.
“What does this have to do with Mia?”
The director didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she said, “Your daughter became obsessed with finding out who the children in those photographs were.”
“Why?”
“Because she recognized one of them.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Who?”
The director looked toward Mia.
Then she lowered her voice.
“Her father.”
Everything inside me seemed to stop.
I looked at my daughter.
Her father had been dead for six years.
