Hartwell. Maeve lay in bed the next morning and typed the name into her computer, after looking at old, grainy footage of the day that Mansfield officially closed. She hadn’t been able to do it until now, the thought of the remembered images from that time in her head and not pleasant to think about. The grounds were flooded with people, and school buses and cars could be seen in the background, some idling, most with passengers, their faces looking out at the cameras detailing their exit. Where were they going? It seemed disorganized, a hasty departure. No wonder some people had gone missing. It was also a wonder how something that happened in her lifetime could look so outdated, so ancient. Digital photography and film had really changed the landscape of documenting life’s important—and infamous—moments. There was nothing to suggest that Regina Hartwell had worked at Mansfield, nothing to give Maeve any indication that the woman even existed. The endless possibilities of the Internet suggested that one could find out anything, but most of the time, the reverse was true; what you were really looking for wasn’t available online.
