Mr. Pettinger handed the Polaroid back to Maggie. “I have to admit, after twenty-plus years working with young people, most of the names and faces tend to blur after a while. But there’s some you just don’t forget.”

If the man noticed the way Sydney’s gaze hadn’t moved from his face, he didn’t let on. Were John Pettinger’s eyes a little wider set than the teenager in CarleeAnn’s photo? And just how much did she trust her memory of that picture? She’d certainly studied it plenty in the days after that hospital visit, but that was years ago.

If only Micah would message or call one of these days to tell her he’d found it. She’d texted him yesterday to check in, but the exchange had been brief. She’d reminded him about the photo, but his response hadn’t exactly been a jolt of assurance. Yeah, I’m keeping an eye out.

Only when she finally tore her scrutiny away from John Pettinger did she realize Maggie was looking at her, clearly waiting for Sydney to follow up with a question. But how to approach what could potentially be an incredibly awkward subject. Did you more than know one of these girls? Is there any chance . . .

“Were you pretty good friends with Diana and CarleeAnn?” A gust of wind sent curled leaves skittering off the pile he’d been forming before they arrived.

“Oh, well, sure. All the counselors tended to hang out together when we weren’t with campers, especially on weekends when the camp emptied out.”

Okay, apparently she was going to have to get more specific. “Did you keep in touch with either of them after that summer?” Chilled air scuffed her cheeks and she burrowed her chin into the burnt-orange-and-white-striped scarf she’d borrowed from an overflowing basket in Maggie’s entryway closet. Together with Neil’s bulky coat, they went far in warding off the morning cold.

But not the nerves grating her in this moment, edgy and muddled. She didn’t know what to feel right now. Hopeful? Uncomfortable? Tense?

A cumbersome quiet stretched for too long, impatient breaths trapped in her lungs.

And yet, certainly only a second or two must have passed before the man replied. “No. No, I never saw or talked to either one of them again after that summer.”

The exhale hit her hard and quick, scraping up her throat. “You’re sure?” she rasped.

“Positive.”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Maggie. The poor woman had been so excited this morning, so pleased at remembering the summer camp, finding John Pettinger. What an awful, unfair coincidence.