My hand shook as I turned the article back around and placed it back in the folder, faceup.
Lila Houston stared up at me from what must have been a school photo. She had round, dark eyes—and long, silvery-blond hair.
CHAPTER NINE
A New Suspect
“IT’S A COINCIDENCE,” GEORGE WHISPERED that night at the campfire. We’d settled on a log far from the main action, and I’d used the time to update her and Bess on everything Deborah had told me. “It has to be . . . right?”
“It seems like kind of a big coincidence,” Bess said. “A girl with silvery-blond hair nearly drowns in the lake . . . and a few years later, swimmers are attacked by a figure with silvery-blond hair?”
I nodded solemnly. It takes a lot to freak me out, and I’m usually not one to believe in ghost tales. But this was really weird. The only thing was . . .
“Lila isn’t dead,” George pointed out pragmatically, looking from Bess to me. “Is she?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Deborah says she’s alive and ended up without brain damage or anything. Or so she heard, anyway.”
George held out her hands. “Ergo,” she said, “Lila can’t be haunting the camp. Because people who are alive cannot haunt.”
I took in a breath, trying to think. We were all quiet for a minute. The sound of the campers’ current tune—“Kumbaya”—drifted over to us.
Someone’s crying, Kumbaya . . .
“What if she’s not alive?” Bess asked suddenly. “It’s not like Deborah ever saw her after the accident, right?”
“But her parents sued the camp,” George pointed out. “They settled, but for a lot of money. I think they would have mentioned if their daughter died.”
Bess held up her pointer finger. “Okay, so she survived the near drowning. But it’s been five years. Maybe she survived, only to die of some totally unrelated thing later. And then . . .”
“. . . then naturally she comes back to haunt the camp where she didn’t die?” George asked, frowning. “If she died of something else, wouldn’t she haunt the thing that actually killed her?”
“Maybe the other thing was really boring,” Bess retorted. “Like an allergy to bee stings or something. Would you want to waste your afterlife haunting a bee?”
“Guys,” I said, “I think we’re getting off topic here. And I have a confession to make. This afternoon, I called Lila’s parents on the pay phone and asked for Lila, pretending to be a telemarketer.”
Bess crinkled her brows. “Did you talk to her?” she asked.
“No,” I admitted, “but I did confirm that Lila is alive and well and still lives here. I also got an earful about the Do Not Call registry. Anyway . . . let’s assume Lila is alive and well, and not haunting the camp. That wouldn’t stop someone who knows about the accident from using it to harass Deborah and Miles . . . would it?”
Bess and George both looked thoughtful.
“Who would do that?” asked Bess after a few seconds.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but that’s what I intend to find out.”
Soon the campfire broke up, and I got to my feet to collect my campers. Before I could make my way over to where they were sitting with Maya, someone grabbed my arm.
“You’re welcome,” Bella said, “for watching your kids earlier.”
I turned around in surprise. Bella wore a scowl, and she looked from me to George and Bess like we were all something stinky she’d stepped in.
“Uh, thanks, Bella,” I said after a brief pause. “I’m sorry, I thought I’d thanked you earlier.”
“It’s just ironic,” Bella said, grabbing a lock of dark hair and twisting it around her finger, “that you guys think I’m the bad one, when you’re sneaking around when you’re supposed to be watching your kids, doing God knows what.”
“I was talking to Deborah,” I explained patiently, “but thanks for the feedback. And I never said you were bad, Bella, I just didn’t think involving a bunch of fifteen-year-olds in some made-up séance was a good idea.”
“It wasn’t made up,” Bella whispered fiercely. “You just don’t want anyone to know the truth about this place.”
“What truth is that?” I asked, curious now.
Bella rolled her eyes at me. “You know what truth,” she replied snarkily. “That this place is mad haunted. Anyway, it’s fine, Nancy. I don’t need you, or your little clique.” She looked past me to Bess and George, who had started collecting their own campers. “I have my own clique.”
With those words, she turned on her heel and strode away.
Why is Bella so interested in this supposed haunting? I wondered again as I watched Bella walk back to her campers and lead them down the path back to the cabins. She says she’s a Camp Larksong alum. . . . Could she possibly have been there that night?