Chapter 6
SIX
I wait until Scarlett is out of the apartment and Gabriel is on a video call with his law firm. That’s when I grab my handbag and phone and head out the door.
The road to the camp is narrow, only a strip of asphalt with tall palm trees on each side. Their leaves sway overhead, rustling softly as their shadows move across my windshield.
I know this road. The thought hits me suddenly, and I find myself gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
Less than fifteen minutes later, I see the white wrought-iron gates ahead coming into view, but they look different from last time I saw them.
The old gates have been swapped for slightly taller ones, still white, but now reinforced with hidden steel panels that weren’t there before.
A new brass plaque shines in the sun beside the gate: Saltspray Cove Center. They’ve removed the words “Youth” and “Camp” from the name. Maybe the rumors are true, and they plan to start accepting adult guests. This rebranding seems like their first public move toward something different.
Now that the new name is up, I know it won’t be long before they make it official.
As I expected, there are security cameras everywhere. I spot at least six small black domes, and there are probably more I can’t see.
Alice was right; they must have spent a lot on these renovations. It makes sense, since the camp serves the children of celebrities, politicians, and tech moguls—returning, loyal families who can easily pay for upgrades like these.
A heavy feeling settles in my stomach. What if this rebranding is their way of covering up what happened here, of trying to erase my daughter’s disappearance so it doesn’t tarnish their squeaky clean reputation?
Past the gates, the campus looks much the same: neat rows of pastel buildings—powder blue and soft yellow, each with fresh white trim.
Flower beds full of hibiscus and bougainvillea line the stone walkway, their colors almost too cheerful for winter. The lawns and hedges are so neatly trimmed, it looks like someone used nail scissors on them.
My heart races as I slow the car, taking it all in. The manicured lawns and perfect landscaping seems like it’s meant to calm parents, to make them believe nothing bad could happen in a place this tidy.
In six months, the place hasn’t changed completely. It just looks like someone improved what was already here.
But now, there’s also a small security booth with a uniformed guard inside.
When he sees me pull up, he steps out and adjusts his cap as he walks over. He looks to be about thirty, with sun-browned skin and dark curls showing under the brim.
His uniform fits his broad shoulders, but he moves in an easy, relaxed way. He might be meant to look intimidating, but there’s nothing stiff about the way he carries himself.
When he gets close enough, I notice a thin pale scar on his temple that disappears into his hairline.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” His voice is low and steady, warmer than I expected.
I get out of the car before I lose my nerve.
“My name is Judy. My daughter stayed here six months ago. Sadie Sutton?”
He looks at me politely and types something into a tablet. When he looks up, his brow furrows. “You’re not on the approved list,” he says, but his tone isn’t exactly unkind. “I’m afraid only registered guests are allowed on campus.”
“I just want to have a look around and talk to someone in charge about an important matter.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That won’t be possible.”
I look past the guard and see teenagers moving in groups across the grounds. They all wear matching pastel T-shirts with the Saltspray Camp logo over their hearts and identical blue jeans. They seem relaxed, calm, and happy.
Another group sits cross-legged under a spotless white pergola, smiling and nodding at a young counselor. Nearby, two other girls lie on their backs in the grass, looking up at the sky, completely at ease. Rested. Content. Safe.
Things my daughter wasn’t.
How could a place that looks so perfect and controlled have failed to keep my child safe?
I wet my dry lips and try again to convince the guard. “My family has connections here. I only need a moment with the director.”
The guard’s expression changes slightly as a second uniformed man with a tighter expression and thick eyebrows appears next to him. After I make the same request to him, he gives the same answer, and I snap at him, demanding to see the director immediately.
“I’ll need to ask you to leave the property now, ma’am. We put our residents’ security above everything else.”
I nod. Stepping back before they can escort me, I get into my car and start the engine.
As I pull away, I throw one last glimpse at the children, searching for Sadie.
Finally, cold floods my veins as I drive back down the road and allow the trees to close in again, to swallow the camp—or center—from view.
Whatever this place is now, whatever it’s become, it won’t keep me from finding an answer to my question, the only question that matters.
Where’s my daughter?
After leaving the camp, instead of going back to the apartment, I stroll around downtown Saltspray Cove.
This place should feel like an escape. But it doesn’t, not anymore.
I actually came here as a teenager, but it was less affluent than it is now. When I left with my family, it was late at night. I remember streetlights blurring past the car window, and the town fading away before I could memorize it.
After that, Saltspray Cove lived only in my imagination. I didn’t come back until my honeymoon with Gabriel. One of our gifts was a honeymoon package at a hotel in Saltspray Cove. There was no card or name, just an envelope with a reservation at the Grand Cove five-star hotel.
Those two weeks were perfect—champagne on balconies overlooking the water, walks on the beach, slow mornings in white sheets.
A year later, Gabriel surprised me with keys to our new holiday apartment.
He got the idea from another tourist he met on our honeymoon. That person had fallen in love with Saltspray Cove and decided to buy a holiday home here, encouraging him to do the same.
I still love this town, but now it feels too carefully arranged, almost like a glossy brochure come to life. It doesn’t feel like a place where people actually live. Maybe that’s the point. Towns like this might exist just for making memories before we return to our real lives.
Avenues lined with palm trees lead to the marina, where expensive white yachts sit in neat rows. One of them is called Second Chance. That’s exactly what I need.
I observe luxury SUVs speed past boutiques with floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, designer clothes, shoes, and genuine leather handbags cost more than some people’s rent.
After wandering for a while, I end up at an upscale open-air market. The organic produce is stacked in perfect pyramids, looking more like museum pieces than food.
I sigh when I see a couple in horse riding gear laughing under a striped umbrella. I miss when Gabriel and I laughed together.
Staff in crisp white aprons offer silver trays of samples, speaking in quiet, polite voices. No one shouts prices or haggles here. The atmosphere is carefully maintained in a place where money is rarely a problem.
I turn down an offer of truffle pecorino at the cheese stall. Instead, I pick up a small cup of imported strawberries, some fresh lemons, heirloom tomatoes, and a loaf of sourdough from a pop-up bakery tent.
The woman at the register gives me a brown canvas tote with the store’s logo on it. Her bright-blue silk scarf shifts as she moves. “Thank you so much,” she says, waving as a tennis bracelet of small diamonds catches the light.
As I leave the market, the streets open up, bordered by perfectly trimmed hedges and olive trees imported from places far away.
Soon, I reach a playground that looks like it belongs in a design magazine. There are climbing frames made of pale wood, slides with matte metal finishes, and huge canvas sunshades over the rubber flooring.
On stone benches, several au pairs scroll through their phones, hardly glancing up at the children they are meant to watch.
I stare at mothers pushing swings, and children chasing each other across the grass, shrieking with laughter. Their sounds of joy feel like a gut punch.
Other mothers in oversized sunglasses push strollers that cost more than a small car.
Watching them all feels like pressing on a bruise.
I was a mother once. I still am.
I remember the weight of Sadie in my arms after twelve hours of labor. I remember her first day of preschool, her fingers locked around mine, tears streaming down her face as she begged me not to leave.
I remember the pride and pain of her first day of real school, how she stood a little straighter but still glanced back to make sure I was watching.
And I remember when she started pulling away. When she fought me. When she wanted independence so badly it felt like rejection. When I hardened, mistaking control for protection. When I told myself tough love was real love.
Thinking back to the photo I received, I force myself to continue believing that my daughter is still out there, alive and waiting for me to find her, so we can have a second chance.
I leave the park before doubts set in.
“I am Sadie’s mother,” I whisper to myself. That doesn’t end because she disappeared.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and tilt my face up toward the sky. It’s a rich blue today.
Is she seeing this same sky? For my own sanity I have to believe that photo is real. Anyway, who would do this? Who would go to the effort of staging a photo, printing it, writing those words, and mailing it?
That wouldn’t just be a prank. That would be unspeakably cruel.
On my way back to the car, I stop short in front of a flower shop I recognize. One of my favorites.
Maison des Fleurs.
Gabriel bought me a bouquet here on the first day of our honeymoon. I dried the petals and kept them for years. I’m almost certain they’re still in a box somewhere, buried beneath things neither of us are ready to throw away.
I stand there now, staring through the window. If not for the photograph, I would be buying roses. Peach roses for the funeral.
Unable to stop myself, I walk inside, and my fingers trace the petals, velvet-soft, alive with color. My mind fights viciously, listing reasons why the photo could be fake. It’s been six months with no body, and no proof.
But my heart refuses to listen to the voice of reason, refuses to snuff out the first real spark it’s felt since the night Sadie vanished.
“May I help you?” the shopkeeper, a woman with a platinum pixie cut, asks.
“Just looking, thanks,” I say and, instead of continuing to do so, I walk back out into the sunshine, sweat prickling at my hairline.
Inside the car, I set the shopping tote on the passenger seat and lean forward, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. Then I stare back out at the town I once loved and now can’t seem to escape.
My pulse spikes when I pull the photo from my bag and stare at it for the hundredth time. And then I catch a movement in the rearview mirror.
A man with a black T-shirt, black jeans, and dark glasses is standing near a parked Mercedes across the street.
He looks like he’s staring at me, but he can’t be. I’m just imagining it. I’ve barely slept and exhaustion is making me see things.
Ignoring him, I start the engine and pull away from the curb, my eyes still on him in the mirror as he turns and walks in the opposite direction.
Still, my hands stay tight on the wheel as I drive back toward the apartment. I can’t stop checking the mirror too often as my foot presses harder on the gas.
Could that be the person who sent the photo?
I nearly run a red light and have to slam on the brakes to avoid clipping a delivery truck.
I pull over, my hands shaking so badly I have to grip my thighs until they stop.
When I finally make it back to the apartment, Gabriel is waiting for me. Scarlett is still not back from the gym.
Seeing that I’m rattled, my husband pulls me into his arms, and I cry into his chest—deep, ugly sobs that soak through his shirt. He just holds me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other pressing firmly between my shoulder blades, grounding me.
When he pulls back, he gazes down into my face, his concern a deep frown between his eyebrows. “Are you okay, baby?”
“I don’t know. Do you really think the photo is fake? Deep down inside, do you really believe that?”
“I know it is,” he whispers.
He pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. “I sent a copy of it to a contact of mine. He knows his way around computers, and he said the photo is definitely fake. Here’s his email response.”
My legs give out and I sink onto the couch as I stare at the screen, the words swimming between the cracks of my vision. My brain refuses to process them for a long moment even as I reread the email.
Sorry, man, that photo is definitely photoshopped. Trust me.
“I’m so sorry.” Gabriel pushes the phone in his pocket. “I wanted to be wrong too.”
He wipes his eyes, but something in me stays rigid. The resolve doesn’t leave.
“If it’s fake,” I say slowly, “then why send it? Why now?”
Gabriel opens his mouth, then closes it. He can’t answer that question.
“Sadie is out there, Gabriel. I just feel it. Our baby didn’t drown that night.”
Gabriel still doesn’t respond.
I move to the window and stare out at the distant lights of the camp.
“I will find out what really happened. Even if it kills me.”