Chapter Four - No Return Address

The Baldwin house stood still in that late afternoon sun, bathed in that golden-hour glow that made the windows shimmer and the hedges look almost too perfect. But perfection, as Harper had learned, was often just a well-maintained disguise.

She stepped through the front door first, the familiar creak in the hinges greeting her like a ghost from a past life. Aura followed shortly after, her sneakers thudding against the tile as she lugged her schoolbag and half-crushed lunchbox. Jackson trailed behind, one earbud in, tapping his fingers restlessly against his jeans as he nudged the door shut with the side of his foot.

They'd made it through their first day back. Barely.

Harper hadn't expected much, but the halls of St Phillips had felt like a minefield. The stares were subtle—quick glances before eyes dropped to textbooks or lockers. No one said a word, but she could hear what they weren't saying.

That's her.

Harper Baldwin.

She was the one in Warren, wasn't she?.

She was at that camp that tortures gay kids.

Do you think she's, like, okay now?

Didn't she go to juvie for almost killing her grandmother?

The silences had weight. Heavy, like soaked wool.

"I'm taking a shower, I got practice soon." Aura mumbled, already halfway up the stairs. Her soccer uniform hung limply from her backpack, ignored and wrinkled, much like the day had left her. She paused halfway up, turned back, and looked at Harper. "You okay?"

Harper gave a nod. Too quick. Too practiced.

Aura hesitated, then disappeared around the corner.

Jackson shrugged off his hoodie, ruffled his hair, and looked at Harper with mild concern. "Mom and Dad are not home yet. They left a note. Something about a dinner reservations later. You want me to reheat the leftovers?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry." she said.

He didn't argue. Just tossed the blazer over the back of a chair and headed upstairs, leaving Harper alone in the wide, echoing silence of the foyer.

That's when she turned to the old table under the staircase.

It was still there—same place it had always been, like a forgotten altar. On top sat the ceramic bowl. Blue-and-white porcelain, filled to the brim with mail: catalogues, credit card offers, bills, holiday coupons from places they never shopped at. Harper's hands trembled slightly as she reached into it, thumbing through the pile.

Credit card statement.

An envelope for Thomas Baldwin from the golf club.

A thick magazine Camila probably wouldn't even read.

Nothing with Harper's name.

She swallowed hard and dug deeper, checking the back sides just in case. Nothing handwritten. No strange stamps.

Her heart sank, bitter and slow.

She had been writing to Riley throughout the past year, to get some sort of answers - was she okay? 

She dropped the stack back into the bowl with a rustle that sounded too loud in the stillness of the house. Her fingers lingered there, hoping something might materialize, as if she'd somehow missed it. But the truth was simple and cruel. 

Riley hadn't written back.

Maybe she wasn't allowed to.

Maybe she was being punished.

Maybe she hated Harper for leaving.

Harper felt the burn of unshed tears behind her eyes. She blinked hard and sat down on the bottom step, the bannister cool against her back as she rested her head against it.

Her mind drifted back to the nights at Camp Redemption—the moonlight filtering through the cracked dormitory window, the rushed whispers between late night work, the tight squeeze of Riley's hand in hers before everything fell apart. Harper had been yanked away in the dark, like a prisoner being extracted. She hadn't gotten to say goodbye properly, she couldn't remember half of it anyway.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out quickly, heart skipping.

No messages. Just a calendar notification for therapy on Friday.

The kitchen light flicked on behind her. Jackson appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water, hair damp from a quick shower.

"You're still down here?"

Harper nodded without looking up.

He stood there for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek the way he always did when he was debating whether or not to speak.

"Did you... get anything?" he asked gently.

Harper shook her head.

He didn't ask who she meant. He already knew.

"I want to see her." she said softly. "I have to know she's okay."

Jackson came over and sat beside her on the stairs, shoulder to shoulder. "Then let's figure it out."

Harper turned her head. "Really?"

"Mom and Dad won't let me go near that place." she said. "Not after everything. I have a curfew now."

Jackson gave a small, dry laugh. "Since when have we ever cared about what they wanted?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It didn't last long, but it was there.

As night began to fall outside, the Baldwin foyer remained still—but in that moment, sitting on the stairs beside her brother, Harper didn't feel entirely alone.

It was nearly midnight when Harper cracked open her laptop.

The house was asleep—Aura's bedroom door shut tight with her fairy lights glowing soft and pink underneath. Jackson had long since disappeared into the attic room he claimed as his "thinking bunker," and the hallway outside their parents' bedroom was still. Camila and Thomas had returned home hours ago, all polite smiles and forced small talk at dinner, but Harper hadn't touched her plate.

Now, the only light in her room came from the screen in front of her.

She pulled her legs up beneath her and typed 'Camp Redemption'  into the search bar with fingers that shook just slightly.

The first link was the camp's official website.

Welcome to Camp Redemption

Transforming lives through discipline, faith, and purpose.

Harper clicked on it, pulse racing.

The homepage was glossy and sterile—stock photos of smiling teenagers doing trust falls and painting crosses, all under a big bright Glenwood sky. If she hadn't lived it, she might have believed it. But she knew what hid behind those polished images. The bruises. The silent treatment. The hours spent locked in "reflection rooms" with nothing but cold walls and Bible verses.

She scrolled quickly, eyes scanning for any useful information.

'Visitors: Due to the immersive nature of the Redemption process, we currently do not permit in-person visits. Letters are permitted only at scheduled intervals.'

Her stomach dropped.

There was a "Contact Us" form, but it was vague and likely filtered by staff. No names. No direct phone numbers. Just a P.O. box and a general email: .

Harper leaned back in her chair, heart sinking.

She clicked away and opened a new tab. This time, she searched:

"Camp Redemption abuse allegations"

Dozens of hits, threads, posts way back from 2019. An article that had been buried under more recent news. One blog post from someone named Sam Y. who claimed to have escaped the camp when he was sixteen.

Harper clicked on the blog and devoured every word.

"It's not a camp. It's a prison with prayer and punishment disguised as progress. I was there for six months. The staff were ex-military. They took our shoelaces, our phones, our names. I still flinch at whistles."

She kept scrolling until her eyes blurred. Her hands curled into fists.

Harper stared at the screen, jaw tight.

Her mind drifted to a memory of Riley—laughing at night, lying beside her on the dorm floor after lights-out, whispering stories into the dark about her family, about the life she wanted after Redemption, about being free.

Harper closed the laptop slowly.

She didn't know how she was going to do it yet. But she would find a way.

If the camp wouldn't let her visit... maybe she'd have to lie. Or sneak in. Or find someone who could.