Chapter 7 #2
Perhaps some became friends with her and noticed her unhappiness or listened to her complain about me and my rigid parenting style.
The first profile belongs to Lucille B., a girl with sun-streaked hair.
Luckily, her profile is set to public and as soon as I land on it, it’s clear right away that she’s from money.
Photos of her in her private school uniform, sailing trips around the world, luxury spa holidays, charity galas in expensive evening gowns, shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, horseback riding in Mexico, summers in the Hamptons, and, most recently, a trip to the Amalfi Coast.
Like I did on the camp’s page, I scroll back to the same week in July.
There are hardly any group photos, mostly selfies of her and her bright-green eyes laughing into the camera with the camp’s entrance behind her.
They must have been taken on the day they arrived because I do know for a fact that they were not allowed phones.
Nothing else useful is posted from that week, so I head back to the camp’s account and click on another tagged name, a boy this time. Hunter is his name and he wears the same hairstyle the Ken doll sports. He has the skinniest arms I’ve ever seen on a boy his age.
He has a similar background to Lucille. Private school, lacrosse team, a summer in the Hamptons before this one. He also barely has any photos from that week. Only a few of him and other boys at the entrance of the camp and nothing else.
I click on more faces. Same result. Until after six profiles, I find one of a bonfire on the beach with the kids around it in a circle. The light is dim and uneven, casting shadows across the sand. Most of the kids are seated, faces trained at the flames.
Near the edge of the frame, a girl is sitting with her back to the camera.
Her hair is falling straight down her back, dark and glossy and glowing like a halo at the edges thanks to the bonfire light.
Her shoulders are narrow, her posture slightly tense, and her head is bent forward like she’s not interested in whatever is going on in front of her.
My pulse stutters and I zoom in, but that only makes the image blur. I can’t see enough to be sure. It could be anyone.
But something about the shape of her tugs at my heartstrings. Sadie used to do that sometimes, hanging her head if she considered something unworthy of her attention.
It might not be her at all, but I take a screenshot anyway.
Still, I go ahead and scan the names tagged in the photo. Sadie had an Instagram account, one I have scoured for clues since it happened, finding nothing useful. But her name isn’t tagged.
I lean back in the chair and force myself to think logically. If Sadie is alive, if she did not die in that water, where is she?
What if she ran away?
The thought I’ve circled around since receiving the photo sinks in, catching me off guard and tightening my chest.
Would that be possible? Six months ago, she was an angry teenager, pushing against every boundary I set.
I still recall the heated argument we had the night before she left with Scarlett.
“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to get the hell out of here!” she had said to me, her voice tight with fury, right before she’d stormed off and slammed her bedroom door and played her music so loud I could hear the lyrics in the living room over the hum of the TV.
I had thought it was nothing but the usual teenage outburst, along with many others that came before it. But now… what if that one triggered something?
Had I really pushed my daughter so far that she’d choose disappearing over coming home?
I look back at the bonfire photo. If she had made friends that week at the camp, would she have told them what she was planning?
“Judy?” a voice calls and I look up to see an older woman walking toward my table with a tentative smile.
Her name is Georgia Price, one of the librarians. She’s tall and composed with auburn hair that hangs in waves around her shoulders.
Dressed in a pale linen blouse and delicate silver jewelry that blinks with the light, she looks elegant and polished and quietly put together like most people in this town.
“I thought that was you.” She squeezes my arm gently. “I was worried you might never return to Saltspray Cove.”
“Georgia, hi.” I try to keep my voice neutral. “It’s nice to see you.”
I’ve known Georgia for years since Sadie and I were such regulars here. She gestures at the chair opposite mine. “May I?”
I nod and she lowers herself carefully into it. “I never got a chance to speak to you when… I’m so sorry, Judy.” Her voice lowers and I see a sparkle in her eyes. “About Sadie.”
“Thank you, Georgia.”
She folds her hands on the table. “I miss seeing her in here. I don’t think I’ve ever met a child that loved books as much as she did.”
I nod, unable to speak for a moment. “She loved coming here,” I manage finally.
“Yes,” the librarian says quietly, her red lips curling in a bittersweet smile. “She did. When she came alone, sometimes she stayed right up to the minute we closed.”
We sit there for a moment in shared grief.
I swallow and wipe a tear from my cheek. “I… don’t want to believe she’s gone.”
“Is that why you came back?”
I shake my head. “We wanted to throw petals in the ocean, a sort of funeral.”
“Well, that sounds beautiful.” Georgia’s hand covers mine for a second before she draws it back.
“Saltspray Cove, especially the camp, will never forget her. I heard they tightened security since then. They even have more cameras on the beach and a clear division set up to separate the camp’s private beach from the public beach.
I suppose it doesn’t help now, but…” She trails off and then sighs.
“The new improvements were all over the papers.”
The papers. I lean forward. “Do you have some back issues in the archives?” I ask. “From that time?”
“You would like to see them? Wouldn’t that be too painful for you?”
“Maybe, but I’m just trying to understand what happened, to find closure.”
Georgia rises from her chair. “Follow me. We keep all the archives in local history.” She leads me down a narrow aisle between tall shelves, her slim gold Rolex catching the light. “Everything’s yours to browse,” she adds, her voice softening. “Just let me know if you need anything else.”
“I appreciate it. Thanks, Georgia.”
Before she walks away, she puts a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry again for your loss.”
She leaves me with stacks of newspapers. I sit on a sleek brown leather couch and start skimming through the articles, searching for any mention of the camp.
local teen’s drowning prompts safety review at saltspray cove youth camp
saltspray cove youth camp beachfront access restricted following tragedy
saltspray cove youth camp installs new security cameras
When the papers aren’t writing about my daughter’s death, they fill the pages with regular camp news. There are stories about fundraising galas with wealthy donors, new cabin permits, and rumors about possible changes in camp leadership.
None of it tells me what I want to hear. If my daughter is alive.
As I walk to the car, I open Instagram and head straight to Lucille’s profile. Without thinking, I start typing her a message.
Hi Lucille,
You don’t know me, but I’m Sadie Sutton’s mother. Sadie was at Saltspray the same week as you last July.
I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out. I’m trying to understand her final days. If you spoke to her at all or noticed anything that seemed unusual about her behavior before she disappeared, I would be grateful to hear from you, but please don’t feel pressured to respond.
Thank you so much,
Judy
I stare at the words, then tap send before I can change my mind.
My throat tightens as I search for Hunter’s profile. I compose another message, only changing the wording slightly.
Hi Hunter, I’m Judy, Sadie Sutton’s mom. She was at Saltspray with you last July. If you remember any conversations with her or observations about her behavior before she disappeared, I’d be grateful to hear them. Even the smallest detail could help.
Thank you for your time,
Judy
I press send.