by Riley Sager
“Now that brings back old times,” she says. “You certainly got your wish, didn’t you?”
I want to run away, but guilt holds me in place. It’s a numbing sensation. A flash freeze. By now, I’m used to it. I’ve been feeling it on and off for the past fifteen years.
“I’m sorry for saying that.”
Vivian shrugs. “Sure. Whatever. It still doesn’t change things between us.”
“I want to make it right.”
“Oh, I know. That’s why you came back here, right? Trying to find out what happened. Snooping around just like I did. As a result, look what happened to your new best friends.”
Her mention of the new girls catches me off guard. I spend a millisecond wondering just how she knows about them. Then it dawns on me.
She’s not real.
She has no power over me.
I’m stronger than everyone realizes.
Strong enough to understand that Vivian isn’t a ghost haunting me. Nor is she a hallucination. She’s me. A fragment of my distressed brain trying to help me figure out what’s happening.
Which is why I stare her down and say, “You know where they are, don’t you? You know where I can find them.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not real,” Vivian says. “That’s your motto, right? I have no power over you?”
“Just tell me.”
Vivian moves on to another statue, hugging it from behind, her chin resting on its delicate shoulder. “Let’s play a game, Emma. Two Truths and a Lie. One: Everything you need to know is already in your possession.”
“Just tell me where they are.”
She shifts to the statue’s other shoulder, her head coyly tilted. “Two: The question isn’t where to find them but where to find us. As in me and Natalie and Allison.”
“Vivian, please.”
“Three,” she says. “As for where we are, that’s not my place to say. But I can tell you this: If you find us, maybe—just maybe—I’ll go away and never come back.”
She slips behind the statue, temporarily eclipsed. I wait for her to pop into view again on the other side. When a minute passes and she doesn’t appear, I take a few weak steps toward the statue.
“Vivian?” I say. “Viv?”
There’s no answer. Nor is there any sign of her presence.
I continue my approach, picking up speed on my way to the statue. When I reach it, I peer around its marble shoulder.
Nothing is there.
Vivian is gone.
Yet her parting words remain, hovering in the middle of the clearing like moonlight. Those three statements. Two true, one a lie.
I have no idea about the first two. Like much of what Vivian said while she was alive, it’s hard to tell the difference between what’s true and what’s false.
As for her third statement, I hope it isn’t a lie.
I want it to be the truth.
Every word of it.
36
I return to Dogwood the same way I left—zigzagging around the cabins to avoid being spotted. The helicopter seems to have packed it in for the night. So, too, have the search boats. When I get a glimpse of the lake, I see no activity on the water. It’s just an empty black mirror reflecting starlight. But the camera is a different story. I know it remains, ever watchful, which is why I slip to the back of the cabin and hoist myself inside through the open window.
Mindy’s snores tell me she’s still asleep. Good. I get to avoid having to explain both where I’ve been and where I plan on going next.
To find the girls.
Both sets of them.
Vivian’s words—my words—haunt me as I crawl down from the nightstand.
The question isn’t where to find them but where to find us.
Something Miranda said comes back to me. I heard the words as I was free-falling into sleep.
I’m worried about Emma.
That worry might have led her to action. Brash, confident Miranda. Mystery lover and future detective. Like Vivian, leading another set of girls into the woods for answers.
Then there’s Vivian’s toying suggestion that I might finally be rid of her if I find out what happened to the three of them. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the only way to free myself from the grip of guilt is to learn the truth.
I hope you never come back.
Christ, I hate myself for saying that, even though I had no way of knowing it would come true. Natalie and Allison were already outside when I uttered those words. Vivian was right in that regard—I really didn’t talk to them very much. Something else I regret. I should have paid more attention to them. Treated them as individuals and not just part of Vivian’s entourage. All the same, I’m grateful they never heard what I said to Vivian. That those weren’t my parting words to all of them.
I tiptoe across the cabin, careful to avoid that one creaky floorboard, the memory of something else Vivian said fresh in my mind.
Everything you need to know is already in your possession.
I know what she’s referring to.
The map.
It’s why they came back to the cabin, only to discover the door locked. Vivian needed her hand-drawn map to help her find the spot where her diary was hidden. She still thought there was something sinister behind the lake’s creation and Peaceful Valley’s end. I suspect she was planning to use it to expose whatever she thought she had found out about Franny and the Harris family.
I quietly open my trunk and remove my flashlight. Then I reach inside and feel around, searching for the map.
It’s not there.
The girls must have taken it with them, bolstering my theory that they set off to find their predecessors.
More hope. That I’m right. That I’m not too late.
As Mindy keeps on snoring, I take another trip out the window. Soon I’m rushing headlong through a patch of trees to the edge of the lake. At the water, I make a left, hurrying along the lakeshore to the dock and canoe racks. Atop the slope of lawn, the Lodge rises heavy and dark. Only one window is illuminated. Second floor. Overlooking Lake Midnight.
Five minutes later, I’m out on the lake in a canoe. I row in strong, fast strokes, hoping the helicopter and search boats don’t return until I reach the other side. My phone sits in my lap, set to the compass app. I glance at it every few seconds, keeping myself on track, making sure I’m cutting across the lake in a straight line.
I know I’m near the far shore when I start to hear eerie scraping along the bottom of the canoe. Underwater tree branches, making their presence known. Flicking on the flashlight, I’m greeted by dozens of dead trees rising from the lake. They’re a ghostly gray in the flashlight’s beam. The same color as bones.
I wedge the flashlight between my neck and shoulder, tilting my head to keep it in place. Then I resume rowing, using the oars to push myself away from the submerged trees or, when a collision is unavoidable, blunt the impact. Soon I’m past the trees and close to the other side of the lake. The flashlight’s beam skims the shore, brightening the tall pines there. A pair of deer at the water’s edge freeze in the light before stomping away. Gray specks flutter within the beam itself. Insects, drawn to the light.
I steer the boat to the left and row parallel to the shore, flashlight aimed to the land on my right. The beam catches more trees, more bugs, the flap of an owl’s wings, blurred white. Finally, it illuminates a wooden structure rotted beyond repair.
The gazebo.
I guide the canoe onto shore and hop out while it’s still running aground. I shove my phone back into my pocket and aim the flashlight toward the woods. I breathe deeply, trying to focus, rewinding to that earlier trip and how we got from here to the X marking Vivian’s diary. I can’t remember how deep into the woods we traveled or
how, exactly, we found our way there.
I sweep the flashlight’s beam back and forth over the ground, looking for any footprints we might have left behind. All I see is hard dirt, dead leaves, pine needles dried to splinters. But then the beam catches something that glows dull-white. Stepping closer, I see splashes of color—vibrant yellows, blues, and reds.
It’s a page from a comic book. Captain America, in all his patriotic heroism, fighting his way through several panels of action. A small rock rests atop the page, keeping it in place.
The girls were here.
Just recently.
The page’s placement is no accident. It’s their trail of bread crumbs, marking the way back to the lake and their canoe.
I step over the paper, tighten my grip around the flashlight, and, like the girls before me, vanish into the woods.
37
The forest at night isn’t silent. Far from it. It’s alive with noise as I move deeper through the woods. Crickets screech and frogs belch, competing with the calls of night birds rustling the pines. I fear that other sounds are being drowned out. The footfall in the underbrush. The cracking twig signaling someone is near. Although there’s no reason to believe I was followed here, I can’t dismiss the idea. I’ve been watched too much not to be on alert.
My flashlight remains aimed at the ground a few feet ahead of me. I sweep it back and forth, looking for another page ripped from Krystal’s comic book. I spot one where the ground begins to slant upward. It, too, sits beneath a rock. As does another one placed fifty yards ahead.
I pass five more pages as the incline sharpens. Captain America, leading me higher. Another page waits where the land flattens out at the top of the incline. It shows Captain America deflecting bullets with his raised shield. The dialogue bubble by his head reads, I refuse to give up.
I pause long enough to swing the flashlight in a circle, studying my surroundings. The beam brightens the birches around me, making them glow white. To my right are patches of starlight. I’m now atop the ridge, mere yards from the cliff that drops away into the lake. I turn left, approaching the line of boulders that punctuate yet another steep rise.
Captain America is there as well, placed atop several boulders, held in place with small rocks. I scramble among them until I reach the massive rock. The monolith. I aim the flashlight up the hill, angling for a better view of the path ahead.
There’s still no sign of the girls. Not even more Captain America. Just more boulders, more trees, more leaf-strewn earth pitched sharply upward.
The forest around me continues to hum. I close my eyes, trying to tune out the noise and really listen.
That’s when I hear something—a dull thud that sounds once, twice.
“Girls?” I shout out, the echo of my voice booming back at me. “Is that you?”
The forest noise ceases, save for the frightened scatter of some spooked animal fleeing to my left. In that blessed moment of silence, I hear a muted reply.
“Emma?”
Miranda. I’m sure of it. And she sounds close. So wonderfully, tantalizingly close.
“It’s me,” I call back. “Where are you?”
“The hobbit house.”
“We’re trapped,” someone else says. Krystal, I think.
Miranda adds one more desperate word: “Hurry.”
I rush onward, my flashlight gripped in my hand. I leap over tree roots. I dodge boulders. In my haste, I trip over a downed branch and fly forward, landing on my hands and knees. I stay that way and crawl up the incline, my fingers clawing the earth, feet flicking to propel me higher.
I don’t slow down, not even when the crumbling stone foundation comes into view. Instead, I go faster, climbing back to my feet and running toward the root cellar cut into the earth. At the door, someone has pushed the ancient slide bolt into place, locking the girls inside. A knee-high boulder has been rolled in front of it for good measure.
Another thump arrives from inside the root cellar. The door shimmies. “Are you here yet?” Miranda calls. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
“In a second!”
I rap on the door, announcing my presence, before giving the slide bolt a mighty shove. It rasps past the door itself, allowing Miranda to open it a crack before being stopped by the boulder. A thick, sickly odor drifts out. A mix of damp earth, sweat, and urine that makes my stomach roil. Miranda presses her face to the crack. I see one bloodshot eye, a red-rimmed nostril, her parted lips sucking in fresh air.
“Help us,” she says with a gasp, giving the door another desperate rattle. “Why aren’t you opening it?”
“It’s still blocked,” I say. “I’m working on it. How are Krystal and Sasha?”
“Awful. We all are. Now please let us out.”
“One more minute. I promise.”
I crouch, place my palms flat on the boulder, and give it a push. It’s so heavy I can barely move it. I try again, this time gritting my teeth and grunting with exertion. The boulder doesn’t budge.
Using the flashlight, I scan the ground for anything that can help. I grab a rounded rock that had chipped off the crumbled wall nearby. Then I spot a fat branch on the ground that’s almost as long as I am. It looks sturdy enough to be used as a lever. I hope.
I shove one end of the branch as far under the boulder as it can go and place the rock under it a few feet away before grasping the other end of the branch and pushing downward. It does the trick, setting the rock rolling the tiniest bit. I drop the branch and run to the boulder, pushing again, continuing the momentum until it’s past the door.
“All clear!”
The door flies open, and the girls burst out. Sweaty and dirt-smeared, they suck in fresh air, stretch their limbs, give dazed looks to the sky. Without her glasses, Sasha is forced to squint. Her nose is swollen and colored a brutal shade of purple. Rust-colored flecks run from her nose all the way to her neck. Dried blood.
“Is it really night?” she says with almost clinical detachment. Shock, with a dash of hunger and dehydration thrown in for good measure.
Rather than hug her, I run my hands up and down her arms, checking for injuries. I feel stupid for not bringing food. Or water. Or a damn first-aid kit. All I can do is use the hem of my T-shirt to wipe some of the blood from Sasha’s face.
“How long were we in there?” Miranda says as she spreads out on the ground, her arms and legs akimbo, panting with relief. “My phone died before noon.”
“Almost a full day.”
Hearing that makes Krystal’s legs buckle. She staggers a moment before plopping down next to Miranda. “Damn.”
“Tell me what happened,” I say. “From the moment you left the cabin.”
“We came here to look for your friends,” Krystal says. “It was Miranda’s idea.”
Miranda sits up, too spent to be ashamed. “I only wanted to help. You were so upset last night. I could tell you needed to know what happened. And since this is where you found that diary, I thought there might be more clues here.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because we knew you wouldn’t have let us row here by ourselves.”
I finish wiping Sasha’s face. The dried blood leaves a dark-red stain on my shirt. “You came here and then what?”
“Someone jumped us,” Miranda says, fear peeking through her exhaustion. Tears cling to the corners of her eyes.
“Who?”
“None of us got a good look.”
“Miranda and Krystal went inside,” Sasha says, nodding toward the root cellar. “I didn’t want to, so I stayed out here. But then someone came out of nowhere.”
She croaks out a sob. It’s followed by more words that tumble forth in a rush, that clinical tone now long gone. “They punched me and my glasses fell off and I couldn’t see who it was and then they shoved me insi
de and slammed the door.”
Someone followed them here, attacked, trapped them rather than outright killing them. It makes no sense.
Unless whoever did it wanted them alive.
Which means they might be coming back any minute now.
Fear zips through me. I yank my phone from my pocket to see if I can call the police. There’s no signal. Which explains why Miranda couldn’t do the same right after they were trapped.
“We need to go,” I tell the girls. “Right now. I know you’re tired, but do you think you can run?”
Miranda climbs to her feet and shoots me a worried look. “Why do we need to run?”
“Because you’re still in danger. We all are.”
A beam of light hits my face. A flashlight. Bright enough to both silence and blind me. I put my hand over my eyes, shielding them from the glare. Behind the flashlight, I can make out a silhouette. Tall. Masculine.
The glare falls away. My vision blurs, eyes adjusting. When they come back into focus, I see Theo, flashlight in hand, taking a step toward us.
“Emma?” he says. “What are you doing here?”
38
Seeing Theo here feels like a minor earthquake. The ground under my feet trembles. Only it’s me who’s really trembling. A seismic shifting in my body I’m powerless to control.
Because his presence can’t be an accident.
He’s here for a reason.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“I’d ask you the same thing,” I say, a catch in my throat. “But I think I already know.”
He’s come back for the girls.
He attacked them, locked them away, waited until the dead of night to return. A chain of events I suspect happened fifteen years ago with a different trio.
My accusation, as misguided as it was, might have been correct. Truth disguised as a lie.
I hate thinking this way. Of everyone in camp, he’s the only one I truly hoped was innocent. But the suspicion refuses to leave, as uncontrollable as my quaking, exhausted body.