The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  Plus, one more from Garret: Just FYI, I could be playing basketball, but instead I’m researching salt mines and can’t seem to stop. Please send help.

  Once again, he manages to make me smile—despite the racing sensation inside my heart and my continuous efforts to push him away. I climb into my car and start the engine—Just while I think, I tell myself.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  Katherine is expecting me to work early.

  I just need a moment to pull myself together—not to mention that Pineport, Maine, is way too far. It must be a two-hour drive, at best—in the dark, on a highway … The mere idea of going such a distance makes my heart pound and my insides squirm. It wouldn’t be smart for more reasons than I can count, including my lack of sleep.

  But what if I stop for a coffee en route? I could also pick up something to eat. That’s what I should do: get myself a bite before I head to work. Katherine will understand if I don’t start right way.

  I put the car in drive, proceed out of the parking lot, and turn onto the main road. My gas gauge says full. A sign for the highway points me to the right. What would happen if I took it? The traffic will be minimal, going north, at this late hour …

  My palms slick with perspiration, I clench the wheel, telling myself I’m not going anywhere; I’ll simply turn back around and return to the library. But I take the ramp for the highway anyway.

  NOW

  45

  It’s not until after about an hour on the road that my hands ease from clenching and I’m finally able to believe I can actually do this: drive to Pineport, taking the slow lane of the highway. There aren’t many cars out tonight. I pass by signs for rest stops and gas stations, telling myself that if anything bad were to happen, like blowing a tire, I could always find help. Plus, I have my phone and money if I need it. Everything will be fine. Everything is going to be just great.

  My phone rings. It’s Aunt Dessa again. This time, I pick up.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’m in my car, driving.”

  “Driving where?”

  “I’m not going to be home for a bit.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Where are you?”

  “Hold on.” I set the phone down, click on my hazard lights, and check in the rearview mirror to make sure that all is clear. There are only two other cars behind me, both of them in the distance—one in the middle lane, the other in the speed zone.

  I pull over to the side of the road, where I put the car in park and pick up the phone again. “I’m going to look for a friend,” I tell her.

  “What friend? Where?”

  “It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Terra, why do we have to do this?”

  I press my eyes shut, picturing my self-portrait at the bottom of a heap, drizzled with glue.

  “You need to come back here,” she says.

  I peek over at the starry doorknob and my mom’s yoga blanket on the passenger seat. Like faithful friends.

  “You need to get some help,” she continues. “Your parents would want that too.”

  “My parents would never give up on me.”

  “And I haven’t either. Now, tell me where you are. Do you want me to come get you?”

  “You keep secrets too, you know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I have to go.” I click the phone off, half expecting her to call right back. When she doesn’t, I grind my head against the window glass and stare into the darkness, where the highway lights illuminate the pavement. My eyes fill with hot-wax tears. I scrunch up in my seat, wishing I were in the back, listening to Star Up and telling myself stories about rest stops and road trips.

  What am I doing? Where am I going? Is it even worth going “home” when there’s nothing for me there?

  I begin on the road again. Like in the well, my eyes eventually dry up. I tell myself, I’m in control. I always have choices. I can just go see.

  More stories.

  How many more miles?

  When my phone rings again, about forty-five minutes later, it’s Katherine, likely wondering where I am. I let it go to voice mail.

  The navigation app has me turn off the highway. A sign for Pineport points me to the right. I follow the directions through the center of what appears to be a cute, quaint town. Streetlamps shine over cobblestone streets, brick-front buildings, and pastel-colored storefronts.

  I pull over again and try logging on to Jane. An error message comes up on the screen, alerting me that the site is down. I try again, using another search engine. Still down. Might it be down because of what I told Detective Marshall—because of the possible threat Peyton got? What are the chances that Marshall searched my chat history with Peyton and found something? Did she also read my journal? And the water-well story in its entirety?

  I go into my email and retrieve the message from the Jane Anonymous administrator. I hit Reply and type a response asking if the site is down because of a temporary maintenance thing.

  My phone chimes. An incoming call. Garret. I pick it up.

  “Hey,” he says. “I have some pictures I want to show you—photos of the salt mines, both before and after a couple of them caved in. I have a picture of a root cellar too. Have you ever heard of a place called Chester Farm?”

  Wait, what? My chest feels tight. Why has he been doing all this research?

  “Terra? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “And is everything okay?”

  “What did you say about a farm?”

  “Chester Farm. Apparently, it was pretty popular a couple of hundred years ago. The owners are the ones that had the root cellars. Their property seemed to back right up to Hayberry—at least as far as I can tell. I’m thinking the farm might’ve been using part of Hayberry at one point and that’s why it closed down. I need to do more research and consult a town historian or surveyor; the online maps don’t show too much detail, and I’d really li—”

  “Garret,” I say, cutting him off.

  “Yeah? Are you okay?”

  I take a deep breath; my hot-wax tears return. “You really don’t have to do all that.”

  “I know I don’t have to.”

  “So, then why are you?”

  “Researching?” he asks.

  “Because you want to?”

  “Well, that’s one reason.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “I care about you. Is that okay?”

  More tears come, making it too hard to speak.

  “Terra? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” I utter, pulling the yoga blanket close.

  “And where is there?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him.

  “That’s not a location.”

  I wipe my face. “I just went for a ride.”

  “I thought you had to work.”

  “I did.’’

  “Okay, then…”

  “I didn’t go in.” I take another deep breath. “I just really need to find Peyton. That guy I was telling you about, from the chat site, he said that Peyton came back online and that she asked him to come get her.”

  “To come get her where?”

  “Someplace in Maine. But he lives across the country.”

  “So that makes no sense.”

  “I think Peyton’s just really scared. I think she probably didn’t know where else to turn or who else to turn to.”

  “So, is she a little like you then?”

  I bite my lip, still startled that he gets it. “You don’t understand,” I say anyway.

  “Why wouldn’t she turn to the police or her parents?” he asks. “Why ask some guy on a chat site, who doesn’t live anywhere close to her, to come pick her up?”

  “She must’ve had her reasons.”

  “You need to think this through.”

  “I need to do something.”

  “Okay, but what if this isn’t the right somet
hing? I mean, you don’t even really know her.”

  “I know she wouldn’t have asked for help unless she really, truly needed it. I can’t just sit back knowing she’s scared and alone and that I did nothing to try and help her.”

  “Is this really about Peyton at all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe it’s more about that trust thing we were talking about before. Peyton trusts you, and you don’t want to let her down the same way people have let you down.”

  I swallow hard, hearing a hitch in my throat. “I’ve let people down too. You just don’t know it.”

  “Are you talking about your parents?”

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror, still able to see the self-portrait I painted—my dirty face, my ashen cheeks, my soot-covered lids.

  “You can’t blame yourself for running from a burning building,” Garret says.

  “Okay, but I do.”

  “And you think helping Peyton will take away the guilt?”

  “It won’t bring my parents back, but it’s still something. Plus, what if our cases are somehow connected? Don’t you think I should try to figure that out?”

  “Not on your own. Plus, what would a connection really change, as far as you’re concerned?”

  “The possibility that others might believe my story.”

  “Terra…”

  “What?” My voice quivers.

  “Where are you? Let me help.”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “Why not? Please tell me you’re not in Pineport already?”

  I recheck the clock. “I should probably go.” The yacht club closes at ten.

  “Tell me where you are.”

  “I’ll call you a little later. Thank you again for everything.”

  “Terra…”

  I hang up and begin on the road again. When Garret calls back, not ten seconds later, I let it go to voice mail.

  NOW

  46

  I head for the lighthouse. The directions take me past a fire station, along a public beach, and down a long, winding road with mansions bordering both sides. It’d be strange to find a phone booth anywhere around here, but still I look, driving slowly with my high beams on. A sign for the lighthouse points me down a narrow road. I take it and drive for several minutes, eventually coming to a parking lot.

  The lighthouse stands in full open view, on the edge of a grassy area that slopes downward toward the sea. I recognize the blue and white stripes from online pictures. There are no other structures around it.

  I park and recheck the Jane website. It’s still down. I go into my email. The reply I sent to the Jane administrators sits flagged in my inbox as undeliverable. I set my nav to the Meridian Yacht Club and pull out of the lot, onto the main road. It’s started sprinkling out. The rain patters down against my windshield, making the streets glisten. The town of Pineport is small. It doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get to the other side.

  Just as expected, the yacht club sits across the street from Pineport Community College. I park in the lot, noticing only a handful of other cars scattered about. I grab a mini-can of wasp spray from the glove box and shove it into my pocket before getting out.

  The front entrance is decorated for fall with a leafy wreath. I go inside, with just twenty minutes to spare before the club is due to close. The interior smells like burning wood. A book group sits in a living room area, in front of a fireplace. One of the staff members uses a shovel to reposition the logs, making the flames sizzle and hiss.

  “Helloooo,” says a voice from behind.

  I turn to look. A girl around my age is seated behind a desk. Her eyebrows are raised. Her arms are folded. How long has she been trying to get my attention?

  “Sorry, I just…” I peek back at the fire.

  The man closes the fireplace screens with a thwack.

  “Can I help you?” the girl asks.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” I tell her, wondering if she’s the same person I spoke to on the phone. “She used to work here. Her name is Peyton.”

  “Peyton McNally?”

  “Or Peyton Bright … I’m not really sure.”

  “The only Peyton I knew who worked here was Peyton McNally.”

  “Did she take classes at the community college across the street?”

  “A couple of years ago, maybe. I haven’t exactly seen her in a bit. She stopped working here a while ago.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  “For the reason that the manager here is an absolute ass.” The girl—named Stacey, according to her name tag—stands from the desk and peers around to make sure that no one’s listening in. “Peyton ended up telling him off when he accidentally screwed up her paycheck for the bajillionth time.”

  “So, it had nothing to do with something more traumatic?”

  “Does it get more traumatic than someone trying to rip you off? On second thought, maybe it does.” She laughs. “But I heard he scammed her hundreds altogether.”

  “How well do you know Peyton?” I ask. “Does she live around here? Does she have family close by?”

  “Sorry.” She shrugs. “I don’t know her well. She used to talk about her grandma a lot; that’s who she lived with, I think. And I can sort of picture her boyfriend. He sometimes came to pick her up. Like I said, it’s been a while.”

  “Did you know about her case?”

  Her face furrows. “What case?”

  “The Peyton I knew had gone missing.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Eight or nine months ago,” I say. “But she escaped. She’s home now. At least, she was home. I’m looking for her.” I spend the next several moments filling her in on some of the major details, including about the shed in the woods and how Peyton burrowed her way free.

  Stacey listens with her mouth parted open, clearly startled by the news. “It’s obvious we’re talking about two different people. I would’ve known if Peyton McNally had been abducted. For one, because we have mutual friends. For another, because I don’t think you understand how small Pineport is. Everybody knows everybody around here. Last year, a boy went missing while out on his kayak, and pretty much everyone in town stopped what they were doing and went out to look. Luckily, the boy was found safe. I hope your friend is too.”

  The women from the book group begin to file out. I check the time. It’s almost ten.

  “I really need to lock up.” Stacey’s tone has shifted; she seems irritated now. She moves from around the desk and lingers by the door, waiting for me to leave.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “What?” She sighs.

  “I know this is going to sound a little weird, but do you know where I might be able to find a phone booth? I mean, I know they’re pretty much no longer in existence, but—”

  “There’s an ancient one located at Harborview Park, behind the creepy swing set and the disgusting water fountain, though I don’t think it actually works—the pay phone, that is. Most people just use it for a photo op. The whole place is pretty circa 1980-something. Don’t even think about going there unless you’ve had your tetanus shot.”

  “And Harborview Park … Do you know where it is?”

  “It’s by Smitherton’s Salvage, not far from Evans conservation land.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not from around here.”

  “You need a tourist map?” She fakes a smile and points to a rack of brochures and maps.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, forgoing the rack. I can use my nav. “You’ve been a huge help.”

  I linger a moment, taking one last look at the fireplace before exiting the building and crossing the parking lot. The sign for Pineport Community College faces out toward the street. I picture Peyton (as the girl from the online photo), sitting on the lawn under the spotlights, mouthing the words Just, please, don’t give up on me.

  I blink the image away and get into my car. According to my nav, Harborview Park appea
rs to be a ten-minute drive. I press Start and begin on my way.

  NOW

  47

  I pull into the lot of Harborview Park and spot the phone booth right away; my high beams shine over it. The booth stands on a cement slab, on the far end of a grassy field littered with old and rusted gang-tagged play structures: a metal slide, a lopsided swing set, and a handful of bouncy toys.

  No one else is around. The park seems completely desolate. If it weren’t for my headlights, I’m not sure I’d be able to see such detail.

  I try to zero in on the phone booth, but it’s too far. All I can tell is that it looks misplaced—both in time and in location. Who would put a phone booth on the edge of a park, facing the water, rather than closer to the lot? I picture Peyton inside the booth, crouched on the concrete, telling Darwin how scared she felt.

  But why would she ask him to come get her here? Was she not thinking straight? Or maybe the phone booth has a clue—something she wanted him to find.

  I check the Jane site again. It’s still down. There are no new messages in my inbox. Meanwhile, I have five missed calls from Garret, plus a bunch of texts.

  I stare out into the darkness, flashing back to a conversation I had with Dr. Mary in the healing garden at the hospital. The purpose of the garden is to provide a stress-free space, but I couldn’t have felt more anxious, biting my lips, scratching my palms.

  “It’s pretty here, isn’t it?” Dr. Mary said. “Tranquil, meditative…”

  Torturous. The flower petals reminded me of switchblades. The thorns looked like barbed wire.

  “I don’t belong here,” I told her.

  She reached out to touch a bloodred rose. “You feel the need to be punished. We need to explore why that is, why you’re so angry at yourself.” As if it were a mystery.

  “My aunt is angry with me too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I feel it.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that what you perceive as your aunt’s anger is really just your own? Because, maybe, deep down, you feel unworthy of being loved?”