I took the list and envelope with me as I headed up to my room, needing space and quiet to try and figure this out, not wanting to have to answer any questions. I sat on my bed and stared at the envelope until my eyes burned, trying to make it make sense.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I felt like I was too close to something. Sloane had an aunt in South Carolina. I knew that. But I couldn’t exactly go knocking on every door in the state, could I? I closed my eyes, trying to think. The answer was there—somewhere—I just had to adjust my eyes to see it properly.

* * *

I was waiting outside the CVS when a tired-looking employee holding a to-go coffee unlocked the doors at six a.m. It was likely there wasn’t anything to be found in either of the cameras. But I was all out of other options, and around five, I’d woken up with this, the closest thing I had to a plan.

The photo department wasn’t even open yet, but after the night I’d had, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to wait until ten, and I convinced the employee to get my pictures for me. I suspected he did it mostly so that I’d leave the store, and him, in peace, but he rang me up, and I left the store clutching the two photo envelopes.

I waited until I got back inside my car before opening them. The first envelope had the picture Dawn had taken of me riding Butterscotch, so I knew this was the one that had come from my car. There were the horse pictures, and the picture I’d snapped of the highway on Frank’s birthday, but all the rest of the pictures were of Sloane.

Sloane at the drive-in, drinking Diet Coke out of a Twizzler straw, looking at the screen, her expression rapt. Sloane bargaining for a vintage leather jacket at a flea market upstate, looking determined—and then one of her triumphant, modeling the jacket for the camera. Sloane sitting on the roof of my car, wearing her vintage heart sunglasses, extending a bag of chips toward the camera, laughing. Sloane on the picnic table at the Orchard, the Thursday we’d cut class and shared an entire pizza. Sloane at the beach, smiling over her sunglasses at me. Sloane in the morning after a sleepover, yawning, her hair undone and wild.

I looked at the last image for a long moment, then tucked the pictures back in the envelope. They hadn’t shown me anything I hadn’t known before. Nothing that helped with where Sloane was now. Just my best friend, the center of my world for the last two years.

I opened up Sloane’s envelope and started looking through the pictures, and felt my eyes widen.

The first one was of me and Sloane, a selfie that we’d taken the first day of junior year, me carefully dressed, my outfit looking brand-new and stiff, Sloane looking much more relaxed in a vintage romper, smiling at me, not the camera.  There was one of a recipe, then one of me, cross-legged on the couch in Stanwich Coffee, hunched over my history textbook. There was one of me and Beckett watching TV. Me and Sloane, almost out of frame, totally out of focus, both of us bent double laughing. Me, my head bent, lacing up my running shoes. Me giving Sloane a cheesy thumbs-up after a race. The front seat of my car, with the pile of snacks for a flea market road trip. Me and my mother in the kitchen, sitting at the table, discussing something, my mother gesturing big while I listened. Beckett, grinning down at the camera from the top of the doorway. The two of us, carrying dripping ice cream cones, both covered with rainbow sprinkles. Me, dressed for the prom, fixing my hair in front of the mirror. Me and Sloane sitting on a picnic table at the Orchard, barely visible in the falling darkness. Me, laughing, holding my hand in front of the camera. Me, driving, hands a blur as I drummed on the steering wheel. Me, smiling at her through the camera, my expression relaxed and happy.

I set the stack down and wiped my hands under my eyes, even though it didn’t do much to stop the tears that had started to fall. All this time, I had just assumed that I’d been the one who cared more. That Sloane had floated above it, not missing me, which was why she’d been able to leave me behind. But this . . .

I picked up the pictures again, looking through the images—some carefully composed, some clearly shot in the spur of the moment. Sloane had seen me. She had taken these pictures of me, of us, many of which I hadn’t seen her take. She had needed me as much as I’d needed her. I could see that now, and it made me ashamed that I’d ever thought anything else.

I wiped at my eyes again and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to pull myself together, flipping through the pictures one last time. I stopped on the recipe photo, squinting at it. It was out of focus, but I could see that it was her aunt’s arrabbiata recipe, the picture Sloane had taken but then hadn’t been able to find. Now it made sense, since she’d never gotten the camera developed. I felt my heart pound as I stared down at it.

The recipe was handwritten, but it was written on a personalized recipe card. And the top of the card read From the Kitchen of Laney Alden. In smaller letters underneath that, it read River Port.

Alden was Milly’s maiden name, I knew that much. I could picture the tote that Sloane had hauled to the beach all last summer, emblazoned with her mother’s initials. And Sloane had told me it was her aunt who had given her the arrabbiata recipe. The aunt who lived in South Carolina.

I grabbed my phone and looked up Laney Alden South Carolina. I got seven results, all from people who seemed to live on opposite ends of the state. I typed in Laney Alden South Carolina River Port, and one listing came up—with an address. I looked down at my phone and realized I finally had my answer. It was where Sloane was. I could feel it.

It was seven by the time I got back home. I’d worked out my plan on the drive over—I’d make my parents coffee before they got up, get them in a good mood before I told them the truth—that Sloane was in South Carolina, and they needed to let me go see her.

I’d expected the house to still be quiet, but all the lights were on, Beckett was outside walking along the porch railing, and there were three suitcases lined up by the steps.

I walked over to Beckett, trying to make sure he saw me, so he wouldn’t get startled and go plunging onto the driveway. “Hey,” I said, and he glanced over at me, hardly bothered.

“Hey,” he said, then started walking backward.

“What’s going on?”

Beckett sighed deeply. “Dad’s making me go to a baseball museum. Cooperstown.”

“Oh,” I said sympathetically. My father was emphatic about the fact that he loved baseball, and that Beckett did too, but neither of them were true fans. My mother’s theory was that my dad had watched Field of Dreams a few too many times and become convinced that the only way to really bond with your son was through baseball. “Sorry about that.”

“Sorry about what?” my dad asked as he came out to the porch, wearing a Stanwich College baseball cap and looking far too cheerful, considering it wasn’t even eight yet. “Em, were you gone this morning? We looked for the car.”

“Yes,” I said, thinking fast. “I was just . . . scouting a new run. I wanted to see how long it was.”

“Oh,” my dad said. He didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged and said, “Well, I’m glad you’re up. Both your mom and I are heading out, and we wanted to talk to you first.”

I glanced down and realized that explained the third suitcase. “Mom’s going to Cooperstown too?”

“Nope,” my mother said as she came out of the house and down the steps, holding an overstuffed purse. “Thank god.” She smoothed my hair down with her hand. “You’re up early, hon. Everything okay?”

“Where are you going?” I asked as I watched, with increasing alarm, as my mother headed over to my car and slung her bag into the driver’s seat.

“New Haven,”  she said.  “I’m giving notes on a tech rehearsal for a friend today, and staying to watch the dress on Sunday.”

“And how long is Dad going to be gone?” I asked, as my father picked up his suitcase and Beckett’s duffel and headed for the car my parents used.

“He’ll be back Sunday night too,” my mom said as she rummaged in her purse, coming up with her sunglasses and pushing them through her hair like a headband.

“Wait,” I said, as I watched my dad shut the back of his car and yell at my brother to get a move on, feeling like things were moving far too quickly. “So you guys are leaving me for the weekend?”

“Did you want to come?” my mother asked, brightening. “I’m sure you could sleep on the couch.”

“Or you could come to Cooperstown,” my dad called cheerfully, walking away from his car and back to the house. “It’s the birthplace of baseball, you know.”

“No, thanks,” I said, looking between the two cars. It wasn’t so much that my parents were leaving me; it was that they were leaving me with no transportation. “But what am I supposed to do about getting around?”

My mom raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t think it’d be a problem for the weekend,” she said. “I thought that Frank or Dawn could drive you if you needed to go somewhere. There’s food in the fridge, so you shouldn’t need to go out for that.”

“But—” I started, feeling panicky. I realized that if I’d confided in either of my parents, they would have known that Frank and Dawn weren’t options at the moment, but that didn’t change the fact that I was going to be stranded.

“If you really need to go somewhere, there’s money in the conch for a taxi,” my dad said, maybe seeing something of what I was feeling in my expression. “But if you’re not comfortable staying alone . . .”