by Lisa Jackson
“I knew you’d understand,” Tyler had said, a bit too smugly.
“Oh, no, I do not understand,” she’d flashed, and the loving touches to his cheek had stopped. Instead she’d scratched him. Hard. Drawing blood beneath the stubble on his cheek.
“Ouch! Stop it! Crap, that hurts! What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” She’d almost laughed, but was too damned mad. “I will never understand why, when you could have me, you chose her. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Shut up, Tyler! Just shut the fuck up. And you’d better never do this again. Do you get it? Because, I swear to God, if you ever slam your dick into some other slut’s vagi, I’ll make what we’re going to do to Monica look like child’s play. You get it. Obviously you didn’t wear a condom, right? So you could catch whatever that whore has and pass it on to me. Jesus, you’re so damned stupid!”
“I just—”
“No excuses, Tyler. Either you are with me and you keep your damned cock in your pants except with me, or we’re through, and I won’t help you with your little ‘problem.’ Got it?”
His jaw had tightened and she’d seen a flare of rebellion in his eyes. Dumb as he was, he didn’t like to be told what to do. But in a glimmer of self-preservation, all he’d said was, “God, I love you, babe,” and she’d let most of her anger go . . . well, no, some of her anger, the part that had been aimed with razor-sharp intensity at Tyler. And finally, when he’d admitted his love, she’d stroked his cheek, feeling the drying blood from the scratch she’d inflicted, and seen how sexy he was. Then, trusting that he really did love her, that he’d just been a horny guy out for a good time with a whore who offered to spread her legs, Jo-Beth had refocused and all of her white-hot rage, all of her pent-up fury had been zeroed in on Monica O’Neal, the true villain here.
The Jezebel.
The seductress.
That bitch was gonna pay.
So now, here Jo-Beth was, hiding behind an old-growth Douglas fir in the middle of the night, trying to remain calm as she waited for Reva and could finally set their plans into motion.
To what end?
Revenge?
Because what you’re planning is not going to assure you of Tyler Quade’s undying love and fidelity?
Uh-huh.
Once a cheater, always a cheater.
That aggravating voice in her head was only saying what she knew to be true, much as she’d wanted to believe him. The simple truth was: Tyler couldn’t be trusted. He was a risk-taker, an extreme sports fanatic, and a daredevil; he got a rush out of pushing things to the extreme, even in sex. She’d already known that and she feared that when he sailed off to college in Colorado this coming fall, he was likely to screw a broad swath through all those supple, lean, mountain-climbing, outdoorsy, and willing coeds attending the university. It made Jo-Beth’s blood boil to think about it. Stupidly she’d believed he wouldn’t fuck around on her at this Christian camp, with her here, but obviously she’d been wrong, an idea she hated. She’d only come here and been a counselor because of him and the fact it would look good on her damned résumé, for God’s sake.
What the hell was he thinking?
Man, she needed to light up, but she’d left her cigarettes hidden in a backpack at the cabin.
She heard the sound of approaching footsteps, saw a bobbing light through the trees, and then slipped back against a big evergreen for cover, her back pressed to the rough bark of the fir’s trunk, just in case whoever was approaching wasn’t Reva. The footsteps slowed and she heard heavy breathing.
“Jo-Beth?” Reva whispered raggedly.
Finally! “I’m here.” Stepping from behind the tree, she found Reva, leaning down, hands on her knees as she gulped air, as if she’d run a damned marathon instead of less than a quarter mile. She straightened. “We don’t have much time. Sosi saw this.” Straightening, she held up the knife.
Jo-Beth could have kissed her. They needed the knife, and Reva was the only person who could have swiped it from beneath Cookie’s nose. That was good news. She didn’t like the fact that Sosi, that wimp, had a glimmer as to what was going on. “Jesus, Reva. Why did you let her see it?”
“I didn’t mean to. I literally stumbled into her in a major make-out session with Nell.”
“Nell? You mean—?”
“I don’t know what it was all about, and it doesn’t matter, but they were into it. So, anyway, Nell took off. I don’t think she saw the knife. And Sosi, blubbering and all upset that they’d been caught, was a mess, but I insisted she meet the others. That’s when she saw the knife. Couldn’t be avoided.”
“Of course it could have been avoided. Are you a moron?”
“Hey! Don’t go there. I stuck my neck out for you, remember? All because your cheating boyfriend can’t keep it in his pants. So don’t get on me, okay. I did what I had to and if I don’t leave right away, this whole thing is going to blow up in your face.” She took a menacing step forward. That was the problem with her. The girl’s temper was mercurial. Calm wasn’t in her vocabulary. She actually held up the knife and waggled the tip under Jo-Beth’s nose.
“Oh, just calm down,” Jo-Beth snapped, not worried that Reva might attack. Still, you never knew. “You just shouldn’t have let her—”
“This is your party, Jo-Beth. You’re the one who’s supposed to be so damned smart,” Reva said. “You figure it out, okay? I stuck my neck out for you, so you fix the problem. This was all your idea.” She held the knife up and the blade caught in a bit of moonlight. “Handle it.”
“Fine. Go back. Tell them I was delayed. I was sick. In the latrine. No, no, my period, that’s it. Cramps. But . . . but . . . I’ll be there about five, maybe ten minutes after you.”
“And if you’re not back right away?”
“Wait for me.”
“How long?”
Good question. God, please let nothing go wrong. “Half an hour tops.”
“And then?”
“Go with the plan. You tell everyone what they’re supposed to say about Elle.”
Reva said, “They’ll ask about Monica.”
“Shit, figure it out!” She had to get going. Couldn’t anyone in this camp do anything without her?
“The tide is going to start to come in.”
“I know!”
“I just need to know what to do. You know, alternate plan B in case you don’t show up.”
“I told you and don’t worry about it, okay. I’ll be there! I have more at stake here than anyone. If . . . if I’m not there in half an hour, then something went very, very wrong.” She didn’t want to think what that might be.
Reva’s eyes glinted. “Then let’s not let that happen, okay?” She brandished the knife as if she’d done it a thousand times, then handed the weapon to Jo-Beth. “I need that back. Tonight. So I can put it back. Otherwise Cookie’s going to be all over me.”
“I know, I know.” Jo-Beth checked her watch. Shit! She was running late.
“Let’s do this,” Reva said.
CHAPTER 3
Camp Horseshoe
Then
Monica
Just leave. Sweating nervously despite the cool night breeze, Monica felt the seconds of the night ticking away.
Jo-Beth seemed to answer her prayers. “Okay, let’s go. We’ve all got to work together to pull this off! We’re running out of time.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Reva didn’t sound convinced, but went along, their footsteps fading, the flashlight’s beam becoming fainter.
Monica let out the breath she’d been holding and sagged against the tree. Pull what off? Not that it mattered. Not tonight, anyway. Thank God they were more interested in putting together their stories about what they all were doing when Elle disappeared than investigating the noise they’d heard on the path. Good.
For a split second Monica wondered about Elle, what had really happened to the girl, but she
put that thought quickly out of her mind. She would probably turn up. The police would find her . . . right?
Now, Monica felt the pressure of time. She had her own problems and already she was late. But she waited. Caught her breath, had to make sure they were completely gone. She was really late. Tyler might not even wait for her. Quietly, every nerve strung tight, she slipped onto the path again, then took off at a dead run.
She couldn’t help thinking of the other counselors, her peers. But they weren’t her friends. Never her friends. Monica saw the counselors more like convicts forced to be together and interact in a prison, the warden being Reverend Dalton. There were nine female counselors in all, if you counted the missing Elle, and, except for herself, Monica despised each and every one of them.
As she jogged through the forest, the rush of the ocean in her ears, the smell of the sea permeating the darkened landscape, the moon offering a weak stream of light, acid curled through her stomach. Her feet pounding along the ever-rising path, she set her jaw and ignored the guilt that had become her ever-present companion.
The plan that Reva and Jo-Beth had discussed was that the female counselors had agreed to sneak out and meet at the cavern to discuss what had happened to Elle, the ninth “Sister,” as Reverend Dalton had referred to them. Not as “Miss” or even “Ms.,” but as “Sister.” Even his tiny little wife, Naomi, referred to them all as Sister Whatever. She was Sister Monica, like some old nun or something. It was weird. Demeaning. Monica hated it.
Just a few more days—less than a week, then you’ll be out of here.
That thought was bittersweet.
Because of Tyler.
Her heart cracked a little when she thought of him. And what Jo-Beth would do to her if she ever guessed. She couldn’t think of that now, because it didn’t matter anymore. She loved Tyler, she did. She didn’t just flirt and hook up with him to get back at that horrid, snooty, rich bitch Jo-Beth.
Or did she?
No! No way!
Still, it sure would have been better if Jo-Beth had been the girl who’d gone missing instead of that waiflike weirdo Elle. Better yet if Jo-Beth would just keel over and die. What a snobby bitch. All because she’d been born with money, the same as Tyler. It just wasn’t fair.
And why the hell did she need a knife tonight? For the meeting? It didn’t make sense, and it worried Monica. Jo-Beth just wasn’t that stable. What was it they said about the super-smart ones? The geniuses? That they were just a few degrees off of being crazy. Well, that made sense. In Monica’s estimation Jo-Beth was as close to a psychopath as she’d ever want to meet.
Don’t think about her now. Just get there!
Monica pushed herself, taking a more circuitous path to avoid anyone else, as all the female counselors except for Nell, as she was too young, were supposed to meet. She couldn’t chance another encounter. She paused once to get her bearings, thought she heard someone on the trail behind her and, more on edge than ever, looked over her shoulder, but saw nothing. Just her damned nerves again. As she crested a hill she noticed the trees gave way to open headland. Here, the path split, one fork doubling back a bit to angle down the hillside to the sea and the cavern where the others, Jo-Beth and her “bestie” Reva and the rest of them, were waiting. Running, Monica considered them all: Bernadette and her wimp of a sister, Annette, along with doe-eyed, know-it-all Sosi, as well as Jayla, a girl from Portland whom she didn’t really know other than that Jayla was originally from Southern California, now lived in Portland somewhere, and was heading to some Christian college on a scholarship. . . and might be a kleptomaniac, if rumors could be believed. But she was friends with the others, so Monica didn’t trust her.
Jo-Beth, of course, was the worst of the sorry lot, a girl Monica would never have chosen as a friend, but now, now . . .
Her mouth went dry and her stomach twisted at the thought that she and the others were not just a group of teens who’d been tossed together as camp counselors anymore. Now they were so much more, inextricably bound together, and she was with these bitches, all of whom had so much more in life than she did. Because of what they had done, what they all had done, the lie they’d spun.
You’re as guilty as the others.
Elle is missing and it’s your fault.
And, admit it, deep in your heart, you know she’s dead.
For all of a nanosecond she thought about the girl, Elle, waifish and ethereal in life and now . . . possibly, no, probably no longer living, a spirit . . .
Stop it! You can’t bring her back now, can you? Can’t undo what you so willingly did.
“Oh, shut up!” she hissed, her voice drowned by the surf as she noticed the fog rolling steadily inland, wispy fingers crawling along the underbrush.
Monica bit her lip, didn’t want to think of the horrid deed that ensured for the rest of her life she was inextricably chained to the girls she despised. Their secrets and lies would bind them until the end of time.
“Shit,” she whispered, and continued along the ridge of a wind-sculpted dune to an area where the trail wound slightly downward in a ragged loop toward the camp. “Shit, shit, shit!” One foot slipped a little and she caught herself, then forced herself to jog more carefully as her eyes scoured the gloom. Around a wide curve in the path she spied a boulder protruding from the ground, its massive form marking a spur in the trail, where another pathway, now overgrown, once used and now nearly forgotten, had wound toward the ridge.
She turned and followed the path as it turned inland.
Here, the beach grass grew heavy between the twisted trunks while native salal rose in towering clumps, encroaching on the trail. Brambles and berry vines clutched at her bare legs, scratching and scraping the skin, while, as she ran, small, dry pinecones crunched beneath the soles of her running shoes. To ensure that she was on the right path, she pulled a small flashlight from her pocket, risked shining the beam on the uneven ground, then snapped it off and tucked it away.
Inside her mind a clock was ticking away. She would be late. The others—the bitches—were probably even now wondering if she was going to show, if something had happened to her, or if she was just standing them up.
Too bad. She had something she had to do, something important. Something . . . life-changing. She just had to—
Her foot caught on a root and she tumbled forward. Her arms flew out as she hit the ground, half catching herself but twisting an ankle and going down on all fours, scraping her knees. “Nooo,” she cried. “Oh, ow! Damn it!” She sucked in her breath through her teeth with the pain.
Rolling onto her back, she held her knees to her chest and winced as she tested her ankle, rotating it gingerly and feeling as if God, or the Fates, or whatever the hell supreme being was supposed to be watching, had just turned His, Her, or Its back on her.
You’re on your own, Monica, but then you always have been. You can’t rely on anyone. Not your parents, with your wacko mother and drunk of a father who can’t hold a job. Certainly not Tyler, and certainly not God.
Pain throbbed, but she rolled onto her rear, dug out the flashlight, and shined its tiny beam over her lower legs. Tiny droplets of blood showed on her knees where raspberries bloomed, but she’d live.
Wincing, she tried moving her ankle again, decided it wasn’t broken or severely sprained, just tweaked, so she gingerly climbed to her feet and turned off the flashlight. She didn’t have time for any distractions or delays. Starting out again, she was more careful, still half jogging, half limping, but cognizant of the rocks and roots that could trip her.
Tyler.
Would he be waiting?
She let out her breath in a heavy sigh. She’d fallen for him. So hard. So fast. With such wild abandon that she’d been mad with lust for him and hadn’t cared about the fact that he wasn’t exactly available.
Oh, fuck it. That was all in the past.
Right?
After the last time they’d met, when she’d given him the news and he’d been
stunned, she now half expected that he wouldn’t show. Absently she rubbed her flat abdomen and thought about what lay within, beneath the layers of skin and muscle. Tears threatened her eyes, but she steadfastly pushed them back as the grass tickled her calves and she nearly tripped again, this time over a fallen log, but somehow managed to leap across it and land softly on the far side.
She’d been a fool. A silly, lovesick fool. For a heartbeat she thought again of a new deception, of not telling him the truth, of hoping to continue seeing him and getting pregnant all over again. So what if the baby just happened to be born a few months later than originally planned? By that time, Ty wouldn’t care and . . . Or better yet, she wouldn’t admit it. She could elope with Ty, and later, once they were married, lose the baby. She cringed inwardly at the thought, but she certainly wouldn’t be the first one to trick a guy into marriage. And then . . . and then . . . he would fall so far into love with her that he’d never want to leave her. This marriage to Ty was her ticket to a better life, one like all the other bitches took for granted. They didn’t understand or couldn’t. And she hadn’t told them, never admitted that her mother was a waitress trying to make ends meet while her father, a hard-drinking Irishman, was as busy chasing skirts as he was construction jobs. No, she’d never say as much. And she’d thought she wouldn’t have to because of the baby. For a few short weeks she’d dreamed that she’d transform from poor-as-dirt Monica O’Neal to become Mrs. Tyler Quade and—
Oh, who was she kidding?
It was too late. The camp was closing for the summer, the closure sped up by the disappearance of pain-in-the-ass Elle.
Setting her jaw, she kept forging ahead. She rounded a final corner and spied a clearing, or what once had been a clearing. Now, the grassy area was choked with weeds and brush, branches and drying leaves visible in the moonlight. Beyond the clearing, where once there had been a flagpole, was the sole building, a dilapidated structure that had once been a chapel, but now . . . now had become their trysting spot, the place where she’d meet Tyler.