# Two girls fell in love at a camp for ‘troubled teens’ and made an audacious escape. Their captors weren’t far behind

Girls who arrive at Re-Creation Retreat (RCR) begin at level one. At level one, girls are not allowed to look out of the window. They are not allowed to talk to each other or look each other in the eye. “Your microexpressions were controlled,” said Carissa Reyes, who joined the programme soon after it first opened in 2008.

Girls climb up the ranks with good behaviour, accruing points and privileges. Girls who reach higher levels are able to wear their own clothes or speak with permission. Eventually they reach level five, and are allowed to leave.

All contact with the outside world is monitored by staff, so if a girl attempts to talk to her parents about what it is like inside RCR, she risks being dropped to level one, and having to start the programme again.

Cassia Cilento was coming down from meth and ecstasy when she first arrived at RCR, a therapeutic treatment centre for girls with “behaviour problems”, in April 2010. She was 14. Earlier that morning, she’d woken up to two strangers in her childhood bedroom in Olympia, Washington. “We’re going to be taking you to your new school,” they said.

Cassia was in her underwear, so the strangers began throwing clothes at her to put on. Her parents were nowhere in sight so, feeling like she had no choice, Cassia got into the car with the strangers.

They rode to Seattle–Tacoma international airport, took a flight to Las Vegas, then drove through the desert to , pulling up outside RCR, a refurbished motel and restaurant in Fredonia – a sparsely populated town on red mountainous terrain.

“ Photograph: Arielle Domb/The Guardian

“I just remember feeling dehumanised,” said Cassia, who is now 29. “Anything that makes you an individual is gone.” Cassia was told to take out all her piercings and change into an orange T-shirt, grey sweatpants and flip-flops.

“It’s like a prison sentence, but you didn’t commit a crime,” said Cassia.

Cassia felt lonely and depleted, but one warm memory stands out from her first day at RCR. It was evening, and staff had gathered a group of girls into a circle for a reflection session. Cassia caught eyes with a girl across the circle, who had dirty blond hair and cool blue eyes. Cassia was immediately attracted to her. “I could just tell that we were on the same vibes with the way that we thought. That was before I’d even talked to her.”

The girl’s name was Ashley Ciciliano. Ashley, who was then 15, remembers seeing Cassia for the first time too. “I knew she was very special the second I saw her,” she said. After the session, the girls found out that they’d be sharing a room.

That night, Ashley sat down next to Cassia when no one else was around and asked her what had brought her to the centre.

Cassia had been sexually abused when she was six years old. “I no longer felt safe in this world,” she said. Aged 12, she began taking hard drugs to disassociate.

Cassia said that her parents never actually asked her what was wrong. Talking to Ashley felt different. “I felt safe with her and I didn’t feel safe most of my life.”

The following night Ashley and Cassia were lying in their bunk beds, when they heard a loud shattering noise. A girl in their dorm had smashed a mirror with a toilet seat and stabbed herself with the shards of glass.

It wasn’t until the following evening that staff formally acknowledged what had happened, Ashley said. She remembers Randy Soderquist, the owner of the facility, calling them into a room and telling them that they weren’t allowed to talk to anyone about what had happened – not to the other girls and not to their parents.

The girls were terrified. But as days, then weeks passed and the girl didn’t return to RCR, Cassia’s mind began whirling. It might have taken seriously injuring herself to do it, but the girl had managed to escape the facility. Cassia didn’t know it at the time, but she and Ashley would eventually hatch their own escape plan from RCR.

RCR was set up by husband and wife Randy and Toni Soderquist, who – according to their website – were inspired to set up the facility after helping one of their daughters through an abusive relationship.

Former residents said their stays at RCR cost tens of thousands of dollars, but they received inadequate therapy and were made to do manual labour. Carissa said that when she arrived at RCR, girls were forced to renovate the facility, building a walkway and spending “at least six hours every day for a week” pulling out weeds in 100F (38C) heat. She said that girls were made to work without compensation at the neighbouring restaurant.

When asked about the allegations in this article, Randy Soderquist said that “due to medical privacy regulations” he was “unable to discuss specific treatment methods or even to confirm or deny that any of the people … interviewed were actually students in our care”. However, he emphasised that “as an organisation we have always been deeply committed to the wellbeing and safety of our residents” and that “our core values of care, respect and dedication to each student’s growth and success have remained unwavering.”

But most of the former residents I spoke with didn’t feel their wellbeing was prioritised. “We were herded around like a bunch of sheep,” said Sophie Olsen, who was released from RCR in February 2023 after a 17-month stay. “If we had to use the bathroom, they could just ignore our hand for as long as they wanted,” she said. “It’s just complete denial of any sort of humanity.”

Girls also described being subject to violent “restraints” for minor wrongdoings, such as refusing to put on their socks. Ashley remembers a triple amputee who used to be “physically restrained as a means of convenience” until she began “wailing”. Yet staff neglected her hygiene needs, meaning that the girl’s roommates had to change her soiled underwear. “Staff didn’t want to deal with it,” Ashley said.

Soderquist’s five children (and later, their spouses) worked at RCR, even though some were younger than the boarders themselves. “Sometimes Randy would leave us alone and we would have to ask his 10-year-old daughter Emily permission to talk,” said Delaney Migues, who attended RCR in 2008.



Delaney Migues in November. ‘I have no doubt my trust issues come from this.’ Photograph: Arielle Domb/The Guardian

Girls described having to take part in humiliating, “bogus” therapeutic practices, like having to wear a “busty red dress” and re-enact The Lady in Red (the well-known Chris de Burgh song about a seductive woman dressed in red) or stand in a group banging a towel on the ground and saying the word “mommy”.

Siobhan Kelly Fogarty, now 32, who boarded at RCR from July 2009 to April 2010, remembers once having to lie on the floor wrapped in a sheet for eight hours, imitating a cocoon, until she broke down crying. She said it seemed as though the point of these workshops was “to make you the most vulnerable and weak you could be so that they can build you back up and say: ‘See, the programme is here for you.’”

Girls describe their bodies going into overdrive from stress at RCR. One former resident said that she didn’t get her period for the entire eight months she was there.

Girls said they couldn’t speak their mind during therapy sessions, as whatever they said could be used against them, resulting in them staying longer. “It’s a complete conflict of interest,” said Delaney. “Do you really think I’m going to be honest with my therapist, when you can decide if I go home or not?”

While almost everyone I spoke with described being negatively affected by RCR, one 18-year-old woman, who spoke to me on the condition of anonymity, told me that she loved her therapist at RCR and that he “helped me and my family more than words can describe”. The woman, who attended RCR last year, more than a decade after many of the other women I spoke with, said that staff would “try everything” they could before using a physical restraint. “It’s treatment,” she said. “It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s not summer camp.”

For many former residents, however, one of the worst things about the programme was feeling like you couldn’t trust anyone – creating an environment where residents were incentivised to snitch on one another and were punished for not reporting rule-breaking. “To this day, I have no doubt my trust issues come from this,” said Delaney, who has since been diagnosed with PTSD.

Still, girls found ways to connect with one another. During music therapy, when the teacher was playing the piano, facing away from the class, Ashley and Cassia would look at each other and giggle. Or on outings, they would sit next to each other on the coach back. Slowly, they got to know each other. “She was the only person that I could trust,” Cassia recalled. “The only person that I thought really saw what was going on with me.”

By fall, it was clear that the girls had feelings for one another. They still hadn’t kissed, but sometimes, when they hugged, they’d hold each other for a little longer. In October 2010, Ashley was released from RCR. Cassia was released a few months later, but spent the next few months yo-yoing between home and RCR. Any time she tried to talk to her parents about RCR, she felt like they didn’t listen: “They were totally convinced that it was better for me to be there.”

Eventually, at the end of 2011, Cassia moved back home to Washington, where Ashley was also living. The girls began hanging out more regularly and their relationship became official. But, a few months later, after Cassia’s mother walked in on her and Ashley sharing a bed, Cassia feared she would be sent back to RCR. She suspected that her parents had spoken with Soderquist, who her dad highly respected, “so much so that I even thought my dad was in love with him, because he put him on a pedestal like he was his God”.

So Ashley made Cassia a promise. If Cassia was sent back to RCR, Ashley would do whatever it took to help her escape.

Not long after, Cassia’s brother asked her if she wanted to meet up at a local mall. Ashley was suspicious that it was going to be a set-up, but agreed to drive over, waiting in the car while Cassia met him inside. Moments later, Ashley looked out the window to see Cassia being dragged by a man towards an SUV.

Ashley jumped out of the car. “What’s going on?” she said. “Why are you taking her?” She got back into her car, started following the vehicle, but lost sight of it after a few traffic lights. Ashley drove to the airport, purchasing a plane ticket to get past security, then checked the gate of every flight to Las Vegas.

Little did she know that Cassia’s abductors were taking her on a different route, having probably anticipated that Ashley would follow her. She was at a different gate, awaiting a flight to Salt Lake City.

### ‘I had no idea what I was going in for, but I knew it’d be better than the hell I was living in’

Back at RCR, Cassia cried for two days straight. Being back at the facility felt like jail, but worse, “because with jail, you have a set date you can get out”.

A new dynamic had evolved that was making Cassia feel uncomfortable. A female staff member in her 30s called Helen (not her real name) had begun paying extra attention to her – letting Cassia off chores, doing her little favours, even rubbing her feet during a movie. Helen told Cassia that she was also gay.

“I loved it at first,” Cassia said. “Until it started to get weird.” Cassia found Helen’s behaviour triggering. “It was very conflicting internally,” she said, reflecting on the trauma of being groomed and sexually abused as a child. “I knew what it could lead to because of what had happened to me.”

Numerous former residents describe sexually inappropriate behavior between staff and residents of RCR, such as “footsie” under the table or one staffer writing his number in a girl’s Bible.

Helen’s behaviour towards Cassia had the added layer of hypocrisy, given RCR’s anti-LGBTQ+ stance. “The people that were gay or bi or whatever were very afraid to express that,” said Siobhan. If girls were found to be in an “inappropriate” relationship, she said, “it would be very harshly punished, straight back to level one.” Some former residents describe being pressured to misgender a trans attender, having to write a 1,000-word essay if they called him by his correct pronouns.



The protest outside RCR in Fredonia, Arizona, on 12 November 2024. Photograph: Arielle Domb/The Guardian

Helen’s advances towards Cassia eventually abated when another girl reported it to a staff member. Cassia said she received the blame: she had points deducted and had to write a 1,000-word essay. “I think their exact words were that I shouldn’t have accepted the favours.”

Meanwhile, in Washington, Ashley was desperately trying to get in contact with Cassia. She had worked out the password to her online study portal and was posting cryptic notes on the discussion board, hoping to get Cassia’s attention without alarming staff. For a while, Cassia didn’t seem to register her messages, so Ashley typed out something more explicit: she was coming to RCR to help Cassia escape.

Not long after, in April 2012, Soderquist told Cassia that he had intercepted their messages. Cassia remembered him asking her to write Ashley a letter, “basically saying that I didn’t care about her, I didn’t love her, I didn’t want her in my life”. Cassia complied, not knowing at the time that the letter was going to be sent to Ashley.

At home in Washington, Ashley opened it up. “Dear Ashley,” the letter began. “I’m sorry that it has to be this way, but I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

Ashley’s first thought was that Cassia had been forced to write it, but then she began doubting herself. “I started to get concerned, maybe they are shifting her opinion on things,” she said. “Maybe she really doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

But as she continued reading, Ashley noticed a shift in tone. “I just pray to God that it isn’t the end forever,” Cassia wrote. “Never forget me, for you will never leave my heart.” The letter felt like it was brimming with secret signs and signatures – “Cassisms”, Ashley called them. Still, she couldn’t be sure. “You start to feel paranoid,” she said. “You’re like: ‘Am I reading into this too much?’”

Cassia said she spent months back at RCR before Soderquist allowed her to take a home visit, a few days before Christmas 2012. Back at home, Cassia said she begged her parents not to make her go back. “They never gave me a chance to see if I was going to get better.

“I wanted to do it right,” she said. “I wanted to live the normal life. But my dad told me: ‘No, you’re going to stay there until you’re 18.’”

Cassia got in contact with Ashley. “Are you ready to do this again?” she said. Ashley drove to Cassia’s parents house on Christmas Eve. Her house had a big driveway and Ashley parked outside it, at the bottom of a hill. Cassia walked down and got inside the car. The initial plan was to wait until after Christmas to run away, but the longer Cassia sat in the car, the more she felt they had to leave there and then. She didn’t even go back into the house to get her bags. They drove away that night.

They got married on Valentine’s Day in 2014, 10 days after Cassia turned 18.

### ‘The spark in my eyes left’



‘It was like we were starting our own home,’ Cassia said of their time on the road. Photograph: Arielle Domb/The Guardian



“It was like we were starting our own home,” Cassia said of their time on the road. Photograph: Arielle Domb/The Guardian

Unable to communicate verbally, Cassia needed to find a way to stimulate her mind to hold on to reality. She began counting things. She would count the number of rooms in the building. The number of chairs. The number of brunettes. “A lot of it was survival mode,” she reflects. “Unfortunately, that is the trauma that stuck with me into adulthood. I’ve been on survival mode since I left.”

A few weeks after arriving back at RCR, Cassia said, Soderquist decided to do an exercise with her. She remembers him asking her to write Ashley a letter, “basically saying that I didn’t care about her, I didn’t love her, I didn’t want her in my life”. Cassia complied, not knowing at the time that the letter was going to be sent to Ashley.

At home in Washington, Ashley opened it up. “Dear Ashley,” the letter began. “I’m sorry that it has to be this way, but I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

Ashley’s first thought was that Cassia had been forced to write it, but then she began doubting herself. “I started to get concerned, maybe they are shifting her opinion on things,” she said. “Maybe she really doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

But as she continued reading, Ashley noticed a shift in tone. “I just pray to God that it isn’t the end forever,” Cassia wrote. “Never forget me, for you will never leave my heart.” The letter felt like it was brimming with secret signs and signatures – “Cassisms”, Ashley called them. Still, she couldn’t be sure. “You start to feel paranoid,” she said. “You’re like: ‘Am I reading into this too much?’”

Cassia said she spent months back at RCR before Soderquist allowed her to take a home visit, a few days before Christmas 2012. Back at home, Cassia said she begged her parents not to make her go back. “They never gave me a chance to see if I was going to get better.

“I wanted to do it right,” she said. “I wanted to live the normal life. But my dad told me: ‘No, you’re going to stay there until you’re 18."

Cassia got in contact with Ashley. “Are you ready to do this again?” she said. Ashley drove to Cassia’s parents house on Christmas Eve. Her house had a big driveway and Ashley parked outside it, at the bottom of a hill. Cassia walked down and got inside the car. The initial plan was to wait until after Christmas to run away, but the longer Cassia sat in the car, the more she felt they had to leave there and then. She didn’t even go back into the house to get her bags. They drove away that night.

They got married on Valentine’s Day in 2014, 10 days after Cassia turned 18.

In September 2023, Ashley and Cassia got divorced. They remain on good terms. This year, Ashley hopes to go to law school and Cassia will do a master’s in psychology. Both cite their experience at RCR as a motivating factor in their careers, galvanizing them to help adolescents who may face similar issues that they did.
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