One week later, Sophie and I drove out to the lake.
It was the same camp road. The same narrow tree-lined turnoff, the same gravel that crunched under the tires.
Sophie watched the water through the window as I parked, her chin resting in one hand, her expression settled and open in a way it hadn’t been since Maya went missing.
We walked to the edge of the dock together.
The lake was the same pale blue-green, the kind of color that looks too beautiful for what it holds.
Sophie and I drove out to the lake.
“I think she liked it here,” Sophie said after a while. “She always said camp was the one place that felt like something was actually happening.”
“She hated being bored,” I replied. “Even for five minutes.”
Sophie smiled. Not the cautious, monitoring smile I had grown used to. A real one.
“Do you remember the summer she made us take the paddleboat out at six in the morning? She wanted to watch the mist come off the water.”
“I remember I was furious,” I said.
“It was beautiful, though.”
“It was beautiful,” I agreed.
“I think she liked it here.”
We talked about Maya for a long time. Not about the search. Not about the case, or the camp, or what we still didn’t know and might never know.
We talked about her.
The way she ate cereal dry because she didn’t like the milk getting warm. The way she always fell asleep in the car within four minutes. And the way she laughed, loud and sudden.
