“Any chance you’d let me see what you’ve written?”
“Why would you even want to?”
“I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. Need I remind you that in addition to my status as a criminal justice and forensic psych major, I’m a two-time trivia champion, American Crime Story edition? And, though I don’t typically like to brag, I also play a mean game of Clue. Come on.” He smirks. “It’d be fun for me.”
“Sounds like you have a pretty wacko idea of fun.”
“And that’s only part of my charm.”
“What’s the other part?”
“My outstanding wit, my dashing good looks, my ability to make origami roses out of paper napkins.” He grabs a napkin and begins making folds, producing a flower, complete with a leaf and stem. The buds are printed with Critter’s furry body.
“That’s kind of amazing.”
“And it’s only one of my tricks.”
“I thought it was part of your charm.”
“I’m glad you’re paying attention. So, what do you say? Can I read the story?”
I open up my phone and log on to the Jane website, noticing another private message from Darwin. The subject line reads, “One more thing…” I click on it:
Hey, Terra,
Sorry to keep bothering you, but when you get a chance, come find me on here. We need to talk.
—Darwin
“Everything okay?” Garret gives me the paper rose.
“It is,” I say, unsure where to begin. I start by telling him about Peyton, about how she dropped off the chat site, and how it seems she’d recently been chatting with some guy named Darwin12. “Which is really kind of weird,” I add, “because she never mentioned him.”
“But isn’t the whole idea of a chat room that you talk to whoever happens to be online?”
“Yes, but you’re missing the point.”
“I’m not. Really. It sounds like your friend Peyton might’ve had some secrets, which is kind of expected. I mean, it’s a chat site, after all. You’re taking everyone’s word for granted.”
“I know. Totally stupid.”
“It’s fine if you know going in that people could be stretching the truth or misrepresenting themselves.”
“I meant me. I’m stupid.”
“Stupid people don’t rewrite a book from memory. They also don’t manage to escape their abductor with no help whatsoever. So, let’s see it.” He nods to the screen.
I click on the journaling tag for The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well and give him my phone.
He takes several minutes to read what I’ve written. When he’s finally done, he looks up at me, his eyes gaping. “Have you gone to the police?”
“They know the book exists. At least, I told them about it. But I haven’t gone to them with this—not yet, at least.”
“What do you think the story means—in the whole scheme of things, that is? With the abduction and with your captivity.”
I shake my head. “I’ve racked my brain about it. It’s one of the major reasons I’m writing the story myself—to understand it more, to see if an idea clicks. I’m wondering if my being taken has something to do with wishes.”
“That’s definitely a possibility. The story also seems to be about trusting the wrong people, making assumptions, being insecure, feeling isolated.”
“When you put it that way, it sounds like he had me pegged.”
“Not necessarily. Most people experience all of the above at least at some point in their lives. Do you think it might’ve had something to do with the theme of not going with your gut?”
“I didn’t go with my gut. I knew I shouldn’t have been walking home alone that night. But that can’t be it.”
“How about the value of a day—like who’s to say what a day is worth…”
“Do you also major in English lit?” I ask him.
“Seriously. That’s probably the biggest theme to the story.”
“I know. And it’s something I’ve thought about too. But I already know the value of a day.” I’d give almost anything to have another day with my parents.
“So, maybe the story isn’t about you specifically. Maybe it’s more about the guy who took you and what he’s figuring out. Do you think he might’ve known you from someplace?”
“Honestly, I’m not really sure, but I don’t think so; at least, I didn’t recognize his eyes that night.”
“And you didn’t see his face.”
“No.” I shake my head. “And, before you ask, no, he didn’t touch me; and, no, I wasn’t tortured. My battle wounds are inside my head.” Burned through my heart.
“Good to know.”
I look down into the black hole of my coffee. “Aren’t you glad you asked me to come out?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Is talking about this stuff a little too intense?”
“It is intense, but it’s nice to be taken seriously.”
Garret taps his cup against mine. “I’ll always take you seriously—unless, of course, you’re joking.” He grins. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure the story out. But, in the meantime, you really do need to show the story to the police.”
“There’s more,” I say, proceeding to fill him in about the book in Peyton’s captivity quarters and the page she found in her mailbox. “Some of the letters on the page were highlighted; they spelled out the words To Be Continued.”
“Did she tell anyone?”
“Aside from me? I’m not really sure.”
“You definitely need to share all of this with the police,” he says. “What if there’s a connection? Books that potentially mirror the victims’ captivity situations…”
“I know.” I sigh.
“Okay, well, they need to know.”
“Except I can’t find news of Peyton’s case anywhere. I don’t even know if Peyton is her real name, though I called a yacht club where she might’ve worked. It seemed the person who picked up may’ve recognized her name.”
“The police should be able to identify the case, just based on the details. Do you want to go talk to them now?”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?” He gets up from his seat.
“You don’t have to do this.” I get up as well.
“Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had in months.”
“Well, if that’s the truth, then maybe you are crazy.”
NOW
41
At the police station, the woman at the front desk tells us that Detective Marshall is already with someone. “Do you want to leave her a message?” she asks.
I shake my head. “We’ll wait.”
We head for a wooden bench. There’s a bulletin board across from it; it’s loaded with most-wanted pictures and crime-watch posters. I’ve studied the faces before, desperate for even a hint of recognition. I study it now too, but still with no luck. Finally, Detective Marshall appears behind the main desk. She couldn’t look more deflated to see me: straight face, tired eyes, zero expression.
“Would you like to come into my office?” she asks.
Garret and I get buzzed through a security door. We follow Detective Marshall down a long narrow hallway, into a small office with a round table. This isn’t the usual space. Normally, she brings me into one of the private conference rooms. Is she not taking me as seriously now?
We sit at the table. Garret reintroduces himself, reminding Detective Marshall that they’ve met before.
“I was the guy from the sorority party,” he says. “I met Terra on the night that she was taken.”
Detective Marshall doesn’t let on whether she remembers him or not. She just sits back in her seat with a smallish notebook in her lap. “So, what can I do for you both?”
I get right down to business by taking out my phone and opening up to the Jane Anonymous website. I click on the link for my version of the water-well story, then set the phone in f
ront of her. “As you know, I wasn’t able to find the book.”
“The book?” she asks.
“From when I was in captivity…?”
Detective Marshall’s face furrows, as though she doesn’t remember, but she takes the phone anyway and reads through the first few paragraphs. “What is this?”
“It’s the book,” I say one more time. “The story, that is—The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well, the one I talked about before that was in the water well with me.”
“Actually,” Garret interjects, “it may not have been a water well, after all. I’ve been doing some research, and … Are you aware of the mining tunnels located about a mile outside Hayberry Park? They seem pretty extensive.”
Detective Marshall slides the phone back toward me, across the table. “People don’t mine around here anymore.”
“They may not,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean those tunnels don’t still exist. Maybe what Terra thought was a well was instead an underground storage area.”
“Then why is she showing me a story about a water well?”
“What difference does it make what the storybook says?” Garret asks.
“You tell me. You’re the ones wanting me to read said storybook.”
“What if the person who abducted me just wanted me to think I was in a water well?” I ask. “What if that’s what worked best for his story?”
“Don’t you mean your story?” she says. “Didn’t you write this?”
“I wrote it from memory,” I say, knowing she doesn’t believe my memories. “I can also describe some of the illustrations, if that’s helpful.”
“We figured you’d want to read the whole book, or as close to a whole book as we currently have,” Garret explains.
“Why don’t you email me a copy?” She sets a business card down in front of me as if I don’t already have a stack sitting on my night table. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. There is.” I tell her more about the Jane Anonymous website and what I know about Peyton’s case. “Peyton feared her abductor was going to come back for her, and now she’s gone.”
“Gone from the chat site, you mean.”
“Yes, but just out of the blue, after she received what she thought was a warning.”
“Just to clarify: When you say warning, do you mean the torn page from the book about junkyards?”
“The page with the shaded-in message,” I say to correct her. “I think To Be Continued should count as a warning, don’t you?”
“Okay, but if she were really missing, authorities would’ve been alerted. A missing-persons case would’ve been filed in her city or town.”
“The same way one was filed on me?” I ask. “People have to notice a person is missing in order to report it.”
My aunt never noticed.
No report was ever filed.
No one ever came looking.
All the hours I spent in the well, telling myself stories about search teams and candlelight vigils …
“Peyton posted a picture of the torn page,” I tell her. “Maybe you could ask the Jane administrators to view our chat history?”
Detective Marshall jots the details down, but I can’t quite tell if she’s taking them seriously or not.
“I’m pretty sure Peyton’s from Maine,” I continue. “From a town called Pineport. I’m not sure where she’d been kept captive—what city or state, I mean—but I remember she said she’d been in a shed, in the woods, and that it’d gotten dismantled by the time the investigators found it. She was able to escape by digging a hole beneath a loose floorboard and tunneling her way out.”
“Do you know the case?” Garret asks her. “Does it sound at all familiar?”
“I’ll look into it.” She stands from the table.
“Peyton said that a book had been left in the shed,” I continue, nowhere near ready to leave. “It was about a group of people who came together as a family. They lived in the middle of the woods, in tiny one-room shacks, with their own set of rules. I don’t know the author. But think about it: the woods, the shack … Both of those details match Peyton’s captivity situation in the shed, just like the water-well book matches mine.”
“Anything else?”
“Do you think there could be a connection?” I ask. “Or maybe my crime was the result of a copycat person?”
“I’ll look into it,” she repeats.
“Will you really?” My face flashes hot.
She’s standing in the doorway now. “How’s your aunt doing? Is everything okay at home?”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“It was nice to see you again, Terra. I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
“And how about my storybook pages?”
“You have my card,” she says instead of answering.
I have her card but no incentive to use it.
NOW
42
Once outside, we start across the parking lot, headed for Garret’s truck. The air is chilly. Still, I breathe it in, feeling stupid for coming here, especially with Garret, especially after everything.
“Is that what it’s been like?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
He stops in front of his truck and looks back at the police station. “I mean, was that any indication of what you’ve had to deal with? With the investigators? With no one believing your story?”
I manage a nod, somewhat startled to see his reaction to my world. “It wasn’t always that way. People believed me at first.”
“What’s not to believe? You were gone for four days.”
“I know.” I shrug. “But I wasn’t a stranger to taking off, ditching school, disappearing for days … I can’t really blame anyone for not noticing.”
“Why not? I blame them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you deserve to be noticed.”
I look away, feeling my eyes well up. “Why are you being so kind?”
“This isn’t about kindness, Terra.”
“Then what is it about?”
He nods to his truck. “I think I told you before this was my grandfather’s old ride? He was pretty much my hero. In the last fifteen years of his life, he worked for free as a vet just because of his love for animals.”
“And so, your grandfather’s selflessness rubbed off on you?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“I’m not some wounded bird.”
“Maybe not, but it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you were. Wounded birds deserve their time to heal. It doesn’t make them any less viable. It just means they’re getting better.”
“Are you a wounded bird?”
“In some ways, I am. We all are. Don’t you think? Anyway, I believe you about everything that happened. And I’m happy to help as much as you want me to. We can be in this together.”
Wouldn’t that be nice? But I’m in it alone. Garret can bring me to the station and help me with my searches. He can take me out for coffee and make me paper napkin roses. Together, we can search for water wells that may or may not exist. But, at the end of the day, I’m the only one who knows the truth about my hell and what it’s like to live in it.
“Well?” he asks.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just remember I’m here, willing to listen, whenever you want to talk.” His eyes look somber and serious, as if he really, truly means it.
I want so much to believe him. And maybe part of me even does. But I can’t help remembering: My aunt had said the same—that she wanted to listen too. Jessie and Felix were no different, pledging their friendship allegiance, but then taking said friendship away. Investigators fooled me too—all of them sitting across the table, telling me it was safe to say anything I wanted but then using that same info against me to “prove” my unreliability. The only person who’s taken my word without question is the same person who also lied.
Peyton.
Where
is she now? How is she doing?
“What’s on your mind?” Garret asks.
“Nothing,” I lie too.
“Tell me the truth. I can take it.”
Can he really?
I look out at the empty lot. “Those days in the well … It’s beyond words what that felt like, how scary and isolating, but it felt nowhere near as isolating as coming back home and having everyone I love turn their backs on me.”
“I won’t turn my back.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I don’t,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.
I turn away again so he can’t see the emotion heating up my face, making my eyes sting. “Like I said before, there’s a lot that you don’t know about me. There are things I’ve done that I’m not exactly proud of.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, carefully, as though too much sound will shatter me like glass. “Is it helpful to know that I could say the same about myself?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Okay, then make me understand.”
“I escaped a burning house,” I snap. “But my parents didn’t.”
“I know,” he says, his face in neutral as though he doesn’t hear what I’m saying.
“The house was on fire,” I insist. “I fled out the window while my parents were still inside.”
“And I can’t even imagine what that feels like,” he says, maintaining a poker face. “But I’m willing to try. No friendship starts with both people knowing everything about the other.”
“Do you really consider me a friend?”
“I’d like to think so. Is that okay with you?”
I want to tell him yes—so unbelievably much. But I haven’t exactly given him a reason to even like me, so then why is he here, when I can barely stand myself?
“Thank you so much for your help,” I say, knowing the answer doesn’t quite fit.
Garret musters a smile but doesn’t say any more. I can tell I’ve probably disappointed him. I’m disappointed too. But it’s better this way.
Safer.
Simpler.
A whole lot less painful.
NOW
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 17