“She went that way,” Claire said.

“Who did?”

“Brandy.”

“Go inside and get dressed, Claire,” Susan said as she hurried off.

“He’s asleep.”

Susan had no time to try to work out what that meant. She moved faster. Behind her, there was the sound of a bicycle. Magda skidded up, hopping off the bike and then dropping it on the grass. Before them, the path bent gently to the left, going deeper into the woods, toward the camp’s theater and archery range. They came upon a strangely calm scene. Brandy Clark, one of Susan’s most reliable counselors, was kneeling on the ground, looking straight ahead. In front of her, maybe twenty feet or so, there was a figure on the path. Susan recognized the curly head of hair at once. Eric Wilde.

“He’s there . . . ,” Brandy said, sounding sleepy and distant. “I put him back.”

Again, this made no sense. No time for questions. Susan and Magda continued on.

Eric was facedown in the dirt, like he was taking a nap. His shirt was mottled, ragged. There was something wrong with his hair—Eric was blond, but this hair was much too dark in places.

But the most telling thing? The flies. All the flies, buzzing around, landing in groups.

Magda made an odd noise, like a hissing tire, and broke into a run. She dropped down on the ground next to Eric and pressed her fingers to his wrist.

“He’s cold,” Magda said.

“I’ll call an ambulance . . .”

“No point. He’s gone.” Magda looked at her watch. “I’m putting it at 7:46. What do you have?”

Susan blinked once, then consulted her own watch. “I have 7:44.”

“I think we can call it 7:45.”

Magda turned Eric over just enough to look at the underside of his body. Shock spread across her face.

“Susan, you need to come here.”

Susan walked the few steps to what she already thought of as “the body.” The sight she saw then would never leave her.

“There are stab wounds,” Magda said in a low voice. “And his head . . . Jesus, Susan.”

Susan raised the walkie to her mouth, which had gone dry.

“Lake house,” she said. “Pick up.”

“Lake house,” said a sleepy voice.

Shawn Greenvale. He was always reliable, and the lake house was one of the only other buildings with its own phone.

“I need you to call the police. Tell them to come right into the camp, to the path that leads to the theater. Say there’s been a serious accident. No ambulance.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just do it, Shawn.”

Behind them, campers were starting to congregate. They were getting louder, talking, crying, pointing. They didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it was clear to them, as it had been clear to Susan, that something terrible had happened.

“Everyone,” she said, “stay calm and back up.”

Everyone did not keep calm. She needed to establish order, now. She did what came most naturally to her—she blew the whistle that hung around her neck. This startled everyone enough to shock them into silence.