The librarian does look slightly curious, admittedly; however, she quickly and efficiently shows me around the town’s newspaper archives and soon leaves me on my own. Luckily, there isn’t a microfilm system to labor through. Instead, the library simply maintains a newspaper morgue with dozens of file cabinets and newspapers stored within manila folders. With her safely out of sight, I immediately dive for the drawer corresponding to 1951 and dig for August 2nd—the day after Grandma’s last entry. Sure enough, the front page is plastered with news of her drowning:

  Tragedy Strikes Siskinoa

  Beloved Resident Donna Marchand Drowns During Underwater Exercise

  Reported by The Siskinoa Daily Staff

  In a shocking turn of events, the peaceful shores of Lake Rockatchee were disrupted yesterday as local resident Donna Marchand tragically drowned while practicing an obscure “underwater meditation technique,” according to police. Miss Marchand, a vibrant member of our community and assistant librarian at the Siskinoa Public Library, was participating in the meditation exercise under the supervision of landowner, Tim Gabelman.

  Eyewitnesses reported that Miss Marchand, along with other members of Mr. Gabelman’s “spirituality club” ventured into the serene waters of Lake Rockatchee to explore the depths and engage in an arcane meditation practice underwater. According to witnesses, Mr. Gabelman, known for his unconventional lifestyle and alternative beliefs, was overseeing the session when tragedy struck.

  Despite the efforts of nearby swimmers and emergency responders, Miss Marchand couldn’t be revived. The news of her untimely passing has sent shockwaves throughout our community, as friends and neighbors mourn the loss of a cherished member of our town.

  As the investigation into the circumstances surrounding Miss Marchand's drowning unfolds, authorities have turned their attention to Mr. Gabelman, the owner of the southern shores of Lake Rockatchee and surrounding property. Questions have arisen regarding his oversight of the meditation session and his responsibility to ensure the safety of participants.

  It’s worth noting that Mr. Gabelman is also the camp director and owner of Camp Rockatchee, which attracts campers from Siskinoa and surrounding towns. For the past ten years, campers ages 9 to 15 flock to this popular summer camp and are housed in cabins near the same shore where the drowning occurred.

  Local law enforcement officials are currently conducting a thorough investigation into the incident, and Mr. Gabelman is cooperating with authorities as they seek to determine the cause of Miss Marchand's tragic death.

  A chill runs down the side of my arms as I cautiously look around at the dusty library. Donna used to work here.

  What strikes me in the article is the discrepancy between its report and what Grandma Ginny told me. The article says that Tim had been “supervising” Donna as she swam. I long thought, just as I argued with James, that Tim was nowhere near the lake.

  On August 3, an obituary for Donna was printed on the first page, along with various photos of her smiling. Her smile was warm, large, and bright. She looked the part of a friendly librarian and as the obituary noted, she was known for her weekly story time sessions with preschool children. She was hoping to earn a certification to teach, and one day, she hoped to marry and have kids of her own.

  There was a kindness and humor to her face that doesn’t make me wonder at her close friendship with Grandma’s family—or with anyone else for that matter. Later newspaper editions feature a few tributes by townspeople, expressing what loss Donna left behind. In her mid-twenties, being fairly pretty and outgoing, she would’ve been a catch had she ventured more outside of Siskinoa, but Grandma’s diary suggests she rarely did.

  I think about her with acute sadness until I spot the name “Sadie Sanderson” written in a column beside one of these tributes, dated a week after Donna’s death.

  Mystery Deepens: Investigation into the Disappearance of Sadie Sanderson Continues in Wake of Donna Marchand Tragedy

  Reported by Eric de Vries

  The disappearance of Sadie Sanderson continues to haunt our community, as new developments shed light on the perplexing case that has gripped Siskinoa for weeks. Sadie, a friendly and popular girl of 17-years-old, vanished without a trace from the site of Camp Rockatchee several weeks ago, leaving her family and authorities baffled and deeply concerned.

  The sudden disappearance led to the early closure of the summer camp on July 11, prompting a widespread search effort to locate Sadie and bring her home safely. Despite exhaustive efforts and community support, Sadie remains missing.

  In a startling turn of events, the tragic drowning of local resident Donna Marchand has led investigators to consider new theories. Donna’s untimely death has raised questions about the safety and security of the campgrounds, leading authorities to reconsider their initial search efforts and refocus their energy on the lake itself.

  The heartbroken parents of Sadie Sanderson have urged authorities to leave no stone unturned. Ed and Tessa Sanderson welcome the new decision for a more thorough search of the lake, but they advocate for a renewed search of the surrounding forest.

  I feel the newspaper slowly slide out of my hand. Why didn’t Grandma tell me about Sadie? A disappearance and a death within a single month?

  All of which looks very bad for Tim.

  The thought that perhaps Grandma was wrong and the town was right makes me feel deceived, and I suddenly feel as if the library’s carpeting is being pulled out from under me. I always thought the town was unfair to Tim, forcing him to close the camp forever and blacklisting him from the community, causing him to become depressed. I thought the drowning was an accident in the purest sense. That Tim had never been that reckless.

  Now, it just seems like the drowning was just the worst-case scenario.

  Of course, I have yet to find the follow-up to the initial article, and the results of the police investigation. Maybe the reporting was initially wrong. I spend the next hour searching paper by paper, month by month to uncover the aftermath. There’s an article about Tim’s decision to permanently close Camp Rockatchee, which no one disagreed with. There’s an article about city funds being used to create a plaque in honor of Donna.

  Then I find what I’m looking for: an article dated several months after Donna’s death was first reported. It’s a front-page story with a large photo of the lead detective: a man with large, thick eyebrows, and a stern, pensive scowl forming between them.

  Police Find No Evidence to Charge Tim Gabelman in Donna Marchand Case: Townspeople Demand Answers

  Reported by Eric de Vries

  After an exhaustive six-month investigation into the tragic drowning of local resident Donna Marchand led by Detective Henry Johnson, authorities have announced that they will not be bringing charges against Tim Gabelman, the owner of Lake Rockatchee, for manslaughter or reckless endangerment. The decision comes as a blow to townspeople who have been clamoring for justice in the wake of Donna's untimely death.

  Witnesses have come forward to corroborate Tim Gabelman's alibi, stating that he was nowhere near the lake at the time of the incident and that the Spirituality Club, of which Donna was a member, was not formally meeting on the day of her drowning. Instead, it has been revealed that Donna entered the water of her own accord, contrary to initial reports, and informed the others in the group of her plans to go for a swim.

  Despite the lack of evidence implicating Tim Gabelman in Donna's death, townspeople have continued to protest and demand answers from local authorities. Many believe that Tim's unconventional lifestyle and spiritual beliefs make him a suspect in Donna's drowning, and they are calling for further investigation into his role in the incident.

  In response to mounting pressure from the community, Tim Gabelman has been forced to explain the underwater meditation technique that Donna was practicing before her death. According to Tim, the practice involves nothing more than a "dead man's float," a relaxation technique commonly used in swimming exercises. He maintains that Donna's drowning was a tragic accident and that he bears no responsibility for her death . . .

  I feel relieved as I read over Tim’s denial. It contains the same defense that Grandma used to explain the situation to me over the years. A comforting familiarity.

  Donna was alone. Tim hadn’t been watching over her. He knew Donna was going into the water, but not to meditate. Just going in for a swim, Grandma said.

  And Donna knew how to swim.

  Everyone knew that.

  August 16, 1951

  Summer’s nearly over, and school is about to start next week. It makes me want to cry.

  Mama’s been acting very uptight about it all, which has been grating my nerves. She wants me to start an earlier bedtime, but if I sleep any earlier, the sun will still be out!

  I decided I needed to step out of the house and get away from my parents for a bit. Tim waved me over, and I helped him paint a few of the canoes. My wrists began to hurt, so I sat down while Tim told me stories about his childhood. Did you know that he once got into trouble with the law for stealing gasoline? It was during the war, and he didn’t want to have to use his ration stamps for it, so I guess understand. It’s still so shocking, so I promised not to tell anyone.

  I even kept it from Donna, who came by afterward. We went for a swim, thankfully. I was dying to get into the water. Donna was a real doll about it, as she always is, and offered to accompany me. I noticed that Donna has the prettiest eyes. There are flecks of green in them whenever they reflect the water or the sun.

  I can’t wait until she gets married. She promised that I could be one of her bridesmaids, and it has me so excited!

  That’s all for now.

  Love,

  Ginny

  Chapter 24

  It’s time to phone mom. Long overdue, actually. Mom is the one who grew up in Siskinoa, not me. Mom is the one who should’ve received this cursed treasure hunt, not me. And overall, Mom knows Grandma better than I do.

  I have so many questions, not the least of which is whether she knows about Sadie Sanderson. It’s a name I never heard of until I read that diary entry. After I left the library, I realized I hadn’t come across another article about Sadie in those six months before Tim’s official acquittal. Deaths slice sharper than disappearances, I guess.

  When Mom picks up, it’s clear I’m interrupting something. There’s loud music and a cacophony of voices, and I assume she and Dad must be out for dinner. I’m a couple of hours behind them, but I don’t want to wait another day. “Syd, is that you? Hold on, I’m going to step out of this balcony, wait just one sec . . .”

  She trails off, and the commotion fades. It’s replaced by a calming white noise, and I assume she’s by a beautiful shore somewhere. “I like your style of mourning, mother.”

  “You know as well as I do that this is what Grandma would've wanted.”

  “Yeah, about that,” I say quietly, trying to figure out how to dive into this conversation. “Did Grandma ever . . . talk about some sort of hidden treasure . . . or secret she was hiding?”

  Mom bursts into laughter, making me jump. “Which time? Your grandma was always up to something. She could never just come out and say what she was thinking. She loved to keep you guessing. I’ve told you this before: I had to work for every one of my birthday or Christmas gifts. They either came with a riddle or a treasure hunt.”

  Hearing those last two words makes me sigh. Maybe there is nothing dark or strange about this treasure hunt. Maybe she did just want me to have her diary as an act of sentimentality. But those last two entries . . .

  “Mom, did Grandma ever say something strange about the town or the forest or . . . ?” I say, struggling.

  “What are you talking about, Syd?

  “Did she ever tell you something of note about the summer camp?”

  Mom scoffs in disgust, jolting me. “Oh my gosh, I remember how you two would talk about her teenage years all the time. You were so fascinated by her camp stories, Syd! Never understood it.”

  “So . . . Grandma would never share stories with you?”

  “Oh, believe me, she tried, but the fifties were boring, honey. No matter how she tried to frame it. At least compared to what I lived through. Now, if she hadn’t married so early and experimented around in the ‘60s like everyone else did, maybe there would’ve been something worth telling . . .”

  “Mom, have you heard the name Sadie Sanderson?”

  She goes silent, and for a moment, I worry that I said something I shouldn’t have.

  “That name . . .” she then wonders quietly. “It sounds familiar.”

  “She was a girl who disappeared in the fifties.”

  “Oh, right! Kids used to talk about her at school. Elementary school. Kids that age love creepy stories. But I think the poor girl just got kidnapped or something; I’m not sure.”

  “Did you ever hear Grandma talk about her?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  “They were good friends as teenagers, apparently. Grandma and Sadie Sanderson.”

  “That’s strange,” Mom muses. “I don’t remember Grandma mentioning her at all.”

  Chapter 25

  “I want to talk as soon as you’re available.”

  That’s the text message I send James the next morning. He’s a longtime resident of Siskinoa. He knows a lot about Donna’s death and the resulting police investigation. He studied the case, as he once told me. Someone like him should know all about Sadie Sanderson. From the town’s perspective, she made up one-half of the Gabelman scandal, which he’s well acquainted with.

  I pace around the living room as I wait for a response, impatiently. Anxiously. To calm my nerves, I go over every detail about this situation that bothers me. The camp session of the summer of 1952 shut down early because a seventeen-year-old girl disappeared, which Grandma never mentioned. She also never mentioned her friendship with the girl in question.

  Of course, Grandma refused to talk about that summer, which I always found intriguing. I can’t be confused that she withheld information, because she always did. But Donna? She talked about Donna’s death. She talked about their friendship, always painting a detailed picture of a woman I never met, to the point that I felt as if I knew her, too.

  So why not Sadie?

  I know that Sadie and Grandma were once friends but their relationship fell apart because of some teen drama I skimmed over. In the end, Grandma must’ve remembered her simply as a girl she once knew in camp instead of a close friend.

  But to completely erase the first tragedy of that summer . . . to never mention her at all . . .

  I start to walk to the cabin's library to retrieve the diary, but someone knocks on my front door. My heart pounds as I block myself with the wooden door and peek surreptitiously through the sidelights. It’s Luke.

  The pounding in my chest intensifies.

  I’ve been avoiding Luke since I ran out of his home two days ago, and now I don’t know what to say. I’ve been on edge all morning, and this makes things worse.

  With sweaty hands, I slowly open the door. “Hi.”

  Luke himself looks nervous—and curious. “Hey, Wilkerson. I tried looking for you yesterday, but you weren’t home.”

  “Yeah, I . . . was running some errands. Hey, sorry about the other day. I wasn’t feeling—”

  “It wasn’t about the Celtic stuff, was it?” he asks quickly.

  I’m taken aback by his expression. It’s a strange mixture of impatience, hope, sincerity, and feigned nonchalance. “You left pretty fast.”

  “No, no, no. Why would I?” I say, perhaps a little too emphatically.

  Luke buys it, and I can see a bit of relief wash over him. “Ok, good. Because, you know—you’d be stupid to. It’s just a dumb knife, and a lot of people gave my family shit for . . . stuff like that.”

  “No, I’m familiar with Celtic iconography. I mean, I’ve designed jewelry with all sorts of pagan motifs. Mostly just for the aesthetic, probably shouldn’t have, but . . . ” I trail off, mumbling.

  Luke leans against my doorpost. He looks down at his shoes, but his expression softens. “Great, because when I took you to see the holy well . . . you didn’t seem to care, like other towners . . . you seemed cool with it, you know?”

  “Yeah, of course. It was lovely.”

  With that last word, Luke smiles at me. Genuinely, even warmly. And I return it. We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds until the sound of tires crunching gravel alerts us to a sleek Mercedes-Benz parking behind Grandma’s dirty Toyota Land Cruiser.

  It’s James.

  A moment of recognition lands on Luke’s face. His smile disappears. He must remember that James and I went on a date. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  He leaves before James even exits his car.

  I stare after Luke’s silhouette as it gradually disappears behind trees while James steps onto the porch. James has a cheery smile; he’s oblivious to Luke’s presence moments before. “How are you doing, Sydney?”

  “I’m doing great. I thought you would text back. I hope my message didn’t sound like an emergency,” I say, although it sort of was.

  “No, I was in the area,” he says simply, gesturing at the road he came from. “Thought it would be easier just to stop by.”

  I remember my manners and ask him about his morning, and after a few pleasantries, I get to the point. “James, I was wondering whether you know anything about the Sadie Sanderson disappearance.”

  To my relief, James' eyes brighten. “Sadie Sanderson? Yeah, of course. She was my grandmother’s sister. Twin sister, actually.”

  Chapter 26

  It was James’s idea, but I’m now in his car, and we are driving to his grandparents’ home. He suggested I speak directly to Catherine Canfield, née Sanderson, herself. She loves talking about her sister, he says, and there wouldn’t be anything strange or intrusive about my visit. Especially after she discovers whose granddaughter I am.

 

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