“It’s me,” he said, offering a dimpled smile. “Max Metcalf. From Camp Blackwood.”

My mouth filled with acid as images of bloodstained rocks swam before my eyes. Don’t panic, I told myself, summoning every ounce of self-possession I had. Remember, it was an accident.

“Max,” I said, my anxiety turning his name into a question. I struggled to modulate my tone and added, “It’s been a really long time.”

“It sure has been,” he said, reaching out for a half hug, to which I submitted reluctantly. “It’s been, what? Fifteen, sixteen years?”

“Longer, I think.”

“Cat!”

I turned in the direction of Audrey’s voice and saw her approaching with Connor, still in the gray slacks and light blue shirt he’d worn to work that day, at her side. My jaw clenched suspiciously. How long had Connor been here, chatting it up with Audrey, while I waited and agonized over whether he would show up? And why was his hand on her arm? I searched Audrey’s face for indications of guilt, but she gave nothing away. Then again, she’d shown no contrition the night Connor tried to kiss her, nor had she when she kissed Bruce Gellar, or any of the dozens of other times Audrey had waltzed off with something she knew I coveted, whether it be a leadership position or just the last slice of pizza.

“Look who I found!” Audrey exclaimed, presenting Connor to me as though he were hers to give.

Still, I was grateful for the interruption. “If you’ll excuse me,” I started to say to Max, but Audrey had already aimed her glossy smile at him and was introducing herself. Stomach tightening, I thought to myself, This can’t end well.

“Sorry,” Connor said to me, smiling apologetically. “I got hung up at work.”

“It’s no problem,” I lied. “I haven’t been here long.”

“Who’s that?” he asked, nodding to Max, who was laughing at something Audrey had said.

“Someone I used to know. Come on, let’s go see the exhibit.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Audrey?”

“She’s busy.” I took a step away and beckoned him. “Come on, before it gets too crowded.”

With one final glance at Audrey and her form-fitting black dress, Connor followed me to the start of the exhibit. I could feel all my muscles unclenching and a wave of relief washing over me as I put distance between myself and Max Metcalf and whatever memories he might have from camp.

AN HOUR LATER, I had just returned to the gallery after a restroom break and was looking for Connor when Max strolled over, smiling pleasantly.

“Hey, Cathy. What do you think?”

I think you should leave me alone, I thought as my palms prickled with sweat.

Aloud, I said, “It’s interesting.”

He laughed. “That’s a lukewarm response. Not your thing, huh?”

I shrugged, a forcedly casual motion I hoped would communicate the depth of my disinterest in speaking with him. It had taken hours upon hours of therapy and a lot of hard work to put that devastating summer behind me, and I would kill Max Metcalf before I let him reveal a single second of it to Connor.