by Riley Sager
But I already know. It was Vivian, Natalie, and Allison I saw in the depths of the lake. The locket was all the proof I need. Now just thinking about it causes grief to balloon in my chest. A common occurrence over the past two days.
“As for the second group of girls from Dogwood, Chet said he had no plans to hurt them,” Flynn says. “Seems to me like he didn’t know what he was going to do. He was just running on anger, not thinking about the consequences.”
“Where is he now?”
“County jail for the time being. He plans to plead guilty to all charges tomorrow. From there, he’ll probably be transferred to a mental-health facility for an unknown amount of time.”
I’m relieved to hear it. I want Chet to get the help he needs. Because I know a thing or two about seeking vengeance. Like Chet, I’ve felt the desire for revenge burn inside me. It’s singed both of us.
But I’ve healed. Not completely, but definitely getting there.
“And I guess I owe you an apology,” Flynn says. “For not believing you.”
“You were only doing your job.”
“But I should have listened to you more. I was so quick to think you did it because it was the easiest explanation. For that, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
We ride in silence until we reach the wrought-iron gate of Camp Nightingale. When I straighten in my seat, Flynn looks my way and says, “Nervous to be back?”
“Not as much as I thought I’d be,” I tell him.
Seeing the outskirts of camp brings a tumble of emotions. Sadness and regret, love and disgust. And brutal relief. The kind you feel when you learn the whole truth about something. The cheating spouse exposed. An official diagnosis. Having the truth revealed means you can finally start to unburden yourself of it.
Flynn steers the car into the heart of camp. It feels as empty and silent as the morning I woke to find the girls missing from Dogwood. This time, with good reason. All the campers, counselors, and instructors have been sent home. Camp Nightingale has closed early. This time for good.
As sad as it is, I know it’s for the best. There’s too much tragedy associated with the place. Besides, Franny has enough to deal with.
Lottie is outside waiting for me when the sedan pulls up to the Lodge. Because I’m loopy from painkillers and my ankle is wrapped with a mile of ACE bandage, she needs to help me from the car. Before letting go of my hand, she gives it an extra squeeze. A signal that she has no hard feelings about what I’ve said. I’m grateful for her forgiveness.
Flynn honks the horn and gives me a wave. Then he’s off, steering the sedan out of camp as Lottie guides me to the Lodge. Inside, there’s no sign of Mindy. I’m not surprised. When visiting me in the hospital, Casey mentioned that she was returning to the family farm. She said it with relish, as if Mindy got exactly what she deserved. If that means something better than being with Chet, then I’m inclined to agree.
“I’m afraid there’s not much time,” Lottie says. “Franny only has a few minutes before we need to go. The people at the jail are sticklers about visiting hours.”
“I understand.”
I’m led to the back deck, where Franny rests in an Adirondack chair tilted to face the sun. She greets me warmly, clasping my hand and smiling as if the years of accusations and misdeeds between us mean nothing. Maybe now they don’t. Maybe now we’re even.
“Dear Emma. How nice to see you up and about again.” She gestures to the floor next to her chair, where my suitcase and box of painting supplies have been placed. “It’s all there. I made sure Lottie packed everything. The only things missing are Vivian’s diary, which the police took, and the photograph she removed from the Lodge. That deserves to stay with Lottie, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to have one last look around Dogwood?” Franny asks. “In case we missed something?”
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
Dogwood is the last place I want to be. It’s too full of memories, both good and bad. With all that’s happened—and all I now know—I’m not ready to face them. The sight of those names carved into hickory and the sound of that creaking third floorboard would probably break me.
Franny gives me a knowing look, like she understands completely. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital. Under the circumstances, I thought it best to stay away.”
“You have nothing to feel sorry about,” I tell her, meaning every word.
“But I do. What Chet did is inexcusable. I’m truly, deeply sorry for whatever pain he caused. To you and the other girls in Dogwood. And please believe me when I say that I didn’t know what he had planned. If I had, I never would have asked you back.”
“I believe you,” I say. “And I forgive you. Not that you did anything wrong. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, Franny. It’s me who should be begging for your forgiveness.”
“I already gave it. Long, long ago.”
“But I didn’t deserve it.”
“You did,” Franny says. “Because I saw goodness in you, even if you never knew it was there yourself. And speaking of forgiveness, I think there’s someone else who has a thing or two to say about that.”
She stretches out her hand, seeking help in getting out of her chair. I oblige and gently lift her to her feet. We lean against each other, wobbling in tandem to the deck’s railing. Below is Lake Midnight, as beautiful as always. And sitting on the lawn, staring out at the water, is Theo.
“Go on,” Franny urges. “You two have a lot to talk about.”
* * *
—
At first, I say nothing to Theo. I simply join him on the lawn, my eyes on the lake. Theo is silent in return, for obvious reasons. I’ve now accused him twice. If anyone deserves the silent treatment, it’s me.
I glance at his profile, studying the scar on his cheek and a new mark on his forehead—a deep-purple bruise where I had struck him with the flashlight. I’ve caused him so much pain. Chet’s actions aside, he has every right to hate me.
Yet Theo still made sure I made it out of the lake alive. Detective Flynn talked at length about how quick Theo was to dive into the water after me. Zero hesitation. That’s how he described it. It’s a debt I’ll never be able to properly repay. I could sit here and thank Theo for hours, beg for his forgiveness, or apologize so many times I lose count. But I don’t. Instead, I hold out my hand and say, “Hi, I’m Emma.”
Theo at last acknowledges my presence with a turn of his head. Shaking my hand, he replies, “I’m Theo. Nice to meet you.”
It’s all he needs to say.
Theo shifts beside me and pulls something out of his pocket, which he drops into my hand. I don’t need to look to know it’s my charm bracelet. I can feel the chain curled against my palm, the weight of the three pewter birds.
“I thought you’d like it back,” Theo says, adding with a grin, “even though we’ve only just met.”
I cup the bracelet in my hand. I’ve had it for such a long time. It’s been my devoted companion for more than half my life. But it’s time to say good-bye. Now that I know the truth, I won’t be needing it anymore.
“Thank you,” I say. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“I think I’ve outgrown it. Besides, I know a better place for it.”
Without a second thought, I toss the bracelet into the air, the three birds taking flight at last. I close my eyes before it lands. I don’t want the memory of seeing it vanish from view. Instead, I listen, reaching for Theo’s hand as the bracelet drops with a light splash into the depths of Lake Midnight.
This is how it ends.
Franny passes away on a muggy evening in late September. She dies not at the lake but in the bedroom of her penthouse at the Harris. Theo and Lottie are with her. According to
Theo, her last words are, “I’m ready.”
A week later, you attend her funeral on a Monday that’s been kissed by Indian summer. You think Franny would have appreciated that. After the service, you and Theo go for a walk in Central Park. You haven’t seen him since leaving Camp Nightingale. With everything that was going on, both of you agreed that space and time were necessary.
Now a host of unspoken emotions hangs over the reunion. There’s grief, of course. And happiness at seeing each other. And another, stranger feeling—trepidation. You don’t know what kind of relationship the two of you will have going forward. Especially when halfway into your walk, Theo says, “I’m going away next week.”
You come to a sudden stop. “Where?”
“Africa,” Theo says. “I signed on for another tour with Doctors Without Borders. One year. I think it’ll be good for me to get away. I need time to sort things out.”
You understand. You think it sounds like a fine idea. You wish him well.
“When I get back, I’d love to have dinner,” Theo says.
“You mean like a date?”
“It could just be a casual meal between two friends who have a habit of accusing each other of doing terrible things,” Theo replies. “But I kind of like the date idea better.”
“I do, too,” you say.
That night, you begin to paint again. It strikes you after hours spent lying awake thinking about changing seasons and the passing of time. You get out of bed, stand before a blank canvas, and realize what you need to do—paint not what you see but what you saw.
You paint the girls in the same order. Always.
Vivian first.
Then Natalie.
Then Allison.
You cover them with sinuous shapes in various shades of blue and green and brown. Moss and cobalt, pewter and pine. You fill the canvas with algae, pondweed, underwater trees with branches twisting toward the surface. You paint a weathervane-topped building submerged in the chilly depths, dark and empty, waiting for someone to find it.
When that canvas is complete, you paint another. Then another. And another. Bold paintings of walls and foundations hidden underwater, engulfed by plant life, lost to time. Each time you paint over the girls feels like a burial, a funeral. You paint nonstop for weeks. Your wrist aches. Your fingers don’t uncurl even when there’s not a brush in them. When you sleep, you dream of colors.
Your therapist tells you that what you’re doing is healthy. You’re sorting through your feelings, dealing with your grief.
By January, you have completed twenty-one paintings. Your underwater series.
You show them to Randall, who’s ecstatic. He gasps at each canvas. Marvels at how you’ve outdone yourself.
A new gallery show is planned, hastily put together by Randall to capitalize on all the publicity surrounding Lake Midnight. It’s set for March. Buzz steadily builds. You’re profiled in The New Yorker. Your parents plan to attend.
The morning of the opening, you get a phone call from Detective Nathan Flynn. He tells you what you’ve known all along—the bones discovered in the water belong to Natalie and Allison.
“What about Vivian?” you ask.
“That’s a very good question,” Flynn says.
He tells you that none of the bones are a match.
He tells you that both Natalie’s and Allison’s skulls were fractured in a way that suggests they were struck in the head, possibly with a shovel found near the bones.
He tells you that chains and bricks had also been discovered, indicating both bodies might have been weighed down.
He tells you the strand of hair in the plastic baggie you found buried with Vivian’s diary is actually processed polyester used mostly in the making of wigs.
He tells you that same baggie also contained traces of a laminate and adhesive that were once common in the production of fake IDs.
“What are you suggesting?” you ask.
“Exactly what you’re thinking,” he says.
What you’re thinking about are Vivian’s last words to you, when she knocked on Dogwood’s locked door.
Come on, Em. Let me in.
Me.
That’s what she had said.
Not us.
Meaning that she was alone.
You hang up the phone with a queasy feeling in your gut. The conversation leaves you so stunned that you almost opt out of attending that night’s opening. Only Marc keeps you from backing out. He nudges you through the motions of getting ready. Shower. Slinky blue dress. Black heels with red soles.
At the gallery, you see that Randall has once again pulled out all the stops. You sip wine and watch shrimp canapés float by on silver trays as you talk to the guy from Christie’s, the lady from the Times, the television actress who helped set your career in motion. Sasha, Krystal, and Miranda attend. Marc takes a picture of the four of you standing in front of your largest painting, No. 6, which seems as massive as Lake Midnight itself.
Later that night, you’re at that very same work when a woman comes up beside you.
“This is lovely,” she says, her eyes on the painting. “So beautifully strange. Are you the artist?”
“I am.”
You glance her way, getting a glimpse of red hair, a striking frame, regal bearing. Her clothes are effortlessly cool. Black dress. Black gloves. Floppy black hat and a Burberry trench. You think she might be a model.
Then you recognize her pert nose and cruel smile, and your legs buckle.
“Vivian?”
She continues to stare at the painting, speaking in a calm whisper only the two of you can hear.
“Two Truths and a Lie, Emma,” she says. “You ready to play?”
You want to say no. You have to say yes.
“One: Allison and Natalie were with my sister the night she died,” she says. “They dared her to go out on that ice. They saw her fall in and drown. Yet they told no one. But I had my suspicions. I knew Katherine wouldn’t do something so dangerous unless she’d been coerced. So I befriended them, earned their trust, pretended to trust them in return. It’s how I learned the truth, teasing it out of them on the Fourth of July. They swore they tried to help Katherine. I knew they were lying. After all, I pretended to drown in front of everyone. As I flailed in that water, only Theo made a move to help me. Natalie and Allison did nothing. They simply watched, just as they had watched Katherine drown.”
You think about the day you came back to the cabin and found the girls fighting. You realize now that you had walked into their confession. And contrary to how friendly they had seemed afterward, nothing between them was fine.
“Two: Since I already suspected what Natalie and Allison had done, I spent a year researching and planning. I learned about the history of Lake Midnight. I found a place no one knew about—a flooded insane asylum. I placed a sweatshirt in the woods to confuse searchers. I fucked the groundskeeper and stole the key to his toolshed. Then I led Allison and Natalie to that secret spot on the lake where no one would ever look. I did to them what they had done to my sister.”
Now you understand that you misinterpreted her diary. She didn’t look for Peaceful Valley to expose its existence. She sought it out because it was the best place to hide her crime.
You think about the shovel stolen from the toolshed. You think about fractured skulls resting on the lake bed. You think about the locket, which you now know Vivian dropped into the water because just like you and your bracelet, she no longer needed it.
“Three: Vivian is dead.”
Your mouth is so dry with shock you’re not sure you can speak. But you do, managing to croak out, “The third one.”
“Wrong,” she says. “Vivian died fifteen years ago. Let her rest in peace, Em.”
She leaves the gallery quickly, her boots clicking against the floor. You foll
ow her, much slower, your legs wobbly from shock. Out on the street, you see a town car streak away from the curb. Tinted windows deny you a good look. No one else is on the block. It’s just you and your palpitating heart.
Back in the gallery, you murmur your good-byes to Marc, Randall, all the others. You say you’re not feeling well. You blame it on the shrimp you haven’t even touched.
At home in your studio, you paint all night and into the dawn. You paint until garbage trucks rumble by and the sun peeks over the buildings on the other side of the street. When you stop, you stand before the finished canvas.
It’s a portrait of Vivian.
Not how she looked back then but how she looks now. Her nose. Her chin. Her eyes, which you’ve painted midnight blue. She stares back at you with a coy smile playing across her lips.
It’s the last time you’ll ever paint her. You know that with bone-deep certainty.
In a few hours, when the post office opens, you’ll ship the painting to Detective Flynn. You’ll include a note telling him that Vivian is alive and was last seen in Manhattan. You’ll ask that the painting be released to the media, who can use it any way they want.
You will expose who she is, how she looks, what she’s done.
You won’t hide her beneath layers of paint.
You will refuse to cover her up.
The time for lies is over.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I need to thank the many people who helped with the writing and publication of this book, starting with my fabulous US editor, Maya Ziv, whose gentle encouragement helped me transform it from an ungainly caterpillar into something that resembles a butterfly. Thanks are also due to Madeline Newquist, for keeping things on track; Andrea Monagle, for her eagle eye; and the publicity and marketing dream team of Emily Canders, Abigail Endler, and Elina Vaysbeyn.
In the UK, I must thank my dream team across the pond: Gillian Green, Stephenie Naulls, and Joanna Bennett. (With special well wishes to Emily Yau.)
Additional thanks go to everyone at Aevitas Creative Management, especially my agent, Michelle Brower, who has stuck with me all these years, and Chelsey Heller, who continues to do stellar work on the international front.