The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “I don’t think I can help you,” she says, cutting me off. “Please don’t call back here.” She hangs up.

  My heart tightens.

  I look back at the chat room screen and scroll upward to read the feed of posts. Most don’t seem alarmed by Peyton’s inactivity, especially since it’s only been a couple of days. The chat quickly branches off in another direction: Cobra-head43’s issues with insomnia. But then Darwin12 brings up Peyton’s name again:

  Darwin12: Paylee22 has snoozing issues too. What are the odds that it finally caught up with her and she’s been sleeping for days?

  NightTerra: Who says she has sleep issues?

  Darwin12: I do. I say.

  NightTerra: And how do you know? Did she tell you she has sleep issues?

  Darwin12: Do I sense a little tension?

  Darwin12: I’m surprised she didn’t tell you, esp. since you two are supposedly so close.

  #MaybeNotAsCloseAsYouThink

  NightTerra: We are close.

  CityGirlSal: It’s true. Paylee’s always on … Even when I’ve come on at 2 and 3 a.m. I don’t think she sleeps.

  Cobra-head43: Maybe she’s a vampire. Lol.

  CityGirlSal: Remind me … Was she in school?

  Darwin12: Am I allowed to answer that? Or is NightTerra the only one who’s supposed to know anything about Peyton?

  TulipPrincess: Defensive much?

  TulipPrincess: Peyton’s taking a year off from school. Isn’t she???

  NightTerra: She told you that?

  TulipPrincess: Yeah. She said she couldn’t imagine sitting in classes, trying to focus. I can’t say I blame her. I’m not focusing much these days either.

  RainyDayFever: I think Paylee wanted to be a vet. But didn’t she also work at a yacht club—just a part-time thing?

  Cobra-head43: Where is she from again?

  NightTerra: She doesn’t work at the yacht club anymore.

  TulipPrincess: I’m sure she’ll come back on soon.

  Darwin12: She seemed kind of upset the last time I chatted with her.

  NightTerra: When was that?

  Darwin12: Not sure. A couple of nights ago? She said she lost someone close to her.

  Darwin12: At first, I thought she was talking about a death. But then she said she wanted the person to forgive her.

  Darwin12: I asked her more about it but she had to go.

  CityGirlSal: Try not to worry too much. She’ll come back on soon.

  TulipPrincess: Team Paylee!

  NightTerra: Thanks, everyone. I’ll keep you posted.

  TulipPrincess: We will too.

  I exit out of the chat, wishing I could rewind the last few days. Am I the one Peyton hoped would forgive her? The person she described as having lost? I close my eyes, thinking how scared she seemed the last time we chatted. And still I felt the need to make her feel worse.

  My cell phone chimes. A reminder to take my meds. I swallow one down, hoping to get some sleep. But first, just a little more journaling.

  THEN

  38

  Somehow, I managed to climb back up, onto the wall of the well. Miraculously, I was able to swing out and grab the chain again. Keeping a solid grip, I kicked outward. My feet met the cold brick surface.

  I scaled the wall—right, left, right—refusing to look down, even when my hip froze up. From the fall? From too much straining? A stabbing pain shot down the length of my leg to the back of my knee.

  Part of me wanted to quit. Another part feared getting to the top and what I would find. Would he be there waiting? Would he slide the lid closed just as my head crested the surface?

  No, said the storyteller inside my head. Your parents will be up there. They’re already waiting. Just you wait and see.

  What was that?

  A squeaking sound.

  I peered upward. A glimmer of light shone at the top of the well. Was it daytime again? How long had I been climbing?

  Birds chirped from somewhere above. I was getting closer. I moved quicker, repeating a chant: Left, right, left; one, two, three. You’re almost there, then you’ll be free.

  My palms singed. Meanwhile, a cooling sensation crawled at the back of my neck. At first, I thought it was the sprinkle of rain. But soon I realized what it really was. I tilted my face upward, able to feel the cool, fresh air hitting my skin and able to see that the sky above had brightened to a silver color that reminded me of doves, light enough to peep the overgrown bushes that branched over the well’s edge.

  I breathed them in. It was almost too much, like sensory overload—the smells, the sounds …

  My pulse raced. My arms wouldn’t stop shaking. Still, I took a few more steps, having finally reached the opening. I hooked my foot over the rim of the well and drew myself closer, kicking outward, maneuvering my body onto the ledge, then over the side.

  My feet hit the ground. The sensation of tall grass, like crawling spiders, nibbled at my skin. I looked all around, my eyes struggling to take in the landscape that surrounded me: the trees, the brush, the bushes and blooms …

  Too much to see.

  Way too much to hear.

  Were those sticks breaking? Was that someone whistling? Was that the peck-peck-pecking of a bird?

  Peck.

  Peck.

  Peck.

  Swish, swish.

  My head hurt. My ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The fresh air in my lungs seemed suffocating somehow. I began forward, gasping for breath, searching for a path.

  Where was I? Where was the guy who’d taken me? Still in these woods? Watching from afar?

  I began down a trail, swiping branches and brush from in front of my eyes.

  It was so cold. I felt so chilled.

  My eyes ran raw. My skin had turned to gooseflesh. Where was the fairy-tale book? Why hadn’t I thought to take it with me somehow? Or the troll doll?

  My muscles tremored. I’d never felt so tired: an all-encompassing fatigue that distorted my judgment. The pine trees I could’ve sworn were still a few feet away were suddenly in my face; I collided with one. The dirt-laden path that seemed to bend to the left really went right; I stepped on a burr.

  Sticks broke somewhere behind me. The sound of footsteps?

  The caw of an overhead bird?

  The screech of a wild animal?

  The panting of my breath as I arrived at a fork.

  I went right, stepping on something sharp. I let out a yelp. Meanwhile, the landscape dimmed, as though a veil had dropped down in front of my face. Was it approaching dusk? Or was the darkening inside my head?

  How long had I been running? Four hours? Forty minutes? Did I ever take a break? I’m pretty sure I did. I remember the sensation of tall grass and weeds brushing against my face, poking into my eyes, making me sneeze, as I leaned back on a fresh bed of soil, imagining myself like a snake, camouflaged by nature.

  Unless maybe I didn’t stop. Maybe that was just a fantasy inside my head, as I continued on the path, trying to get away. One thing I know for sure: The bottoms of my feet were raw and burning. My side ached, below my ribs, a jolting pain that caused me to hobble.

  Moments later, I heard it: a high-pitched voice. A happy sound.

  A girl’s laughter?

  Someone let out a crying-moaning wail. It took me a beat to realize it was me. My cry. My tears. Something in my heart burst. I pictured confetti shooting out from my chest.

  I’d reached a clearing: a carpet of grass, a rock sofa, a pit for a fire. And a water fountain, where I drank and drank, as my jaw ached and my shirt got wet. Meanwhile, two girls stopped doing cartwheels. And a woman with her dog turned in my direction.

  Beyond them, the path continued. I hobbled forward, past the woman with a baby carriage and the tourists taking pictures. Past the old man reading a book. And the lady picking soda cans from the trash.

  “Are you okay?” someone called, a high-pitched voice.

  “She isn’t wearing any shoes!” another voice shout
ed.

  The sun was setting. Eventually, it turned dark. I ran under lights and tore across streets. I was still miles from home and should’ve stopped along the way—to call my aunt, to phone the police. But I didn’t stop, even though I told myself I would at nearly every corner. My body kept on moving—until I found my way “home.”

  NOW

  39

  I roll over in bed, able to smell something. The scent of burning chemicals hangs heavily in the air. I sit up and click on my night table light. The smoke detector by the door remains in neutral. It isn’t flashing. There is no beeping.

  Where are the extinguishers? Did Aunt Dessa move them again and rearrange my things? My art supplies are gone now too—my easel, my side table, my crate of paints and sprays …

  I get up, noticing the carpeting beneath my feet, as well as the pajamas I’m wearing—the pink ones with the yellow daisies, just like the night of the fire. Somehow, I’m back in my room on Bailey Road. My fuzzy green chair sits opposite my bed. I look up just as a spotlight blinks above my head. The light shines down from a rusted chain, like the one in the well.

  Terra? a female voice calls from behind my bedroom door. Can you open up?

  “Peyton?” I try the knob, then snatch my hand back. It’s too hot. The metal burns. I turn my hand over to look at my palm. The words To Be Continued are seared into my skin.

  Please! Peyton cries. You’re like a sister to me. You have to believe me when I say that your friendship has been the one thing that’s kept me going these past couple of months.

  I search for something to use as a buffer, spotting a strewn sock. I slip it on like a glove and grab the knob, aiming for the star. Finally, I’m able to handle it, but the knob falls off in my grip and topples to the floor, shattering like glass. A spill of water surrounds my feet.

  The spotlight blinks—one, two, three—before going out completely. And meanwhile, the burning rubber scent fills the room, constricting my breath.

  I go for the window, just as my phone chimes. A reminder to take my meds. My doorbell ringtone startles me awake.

  I sit up in bed, only to discover I’m in my room, in my aunt’s house. There is no spotlight, no carpeted floors. “It was just a dream,” I mutter to myself.

  Crazy Sally used to mutter too, used to talk in her sleep, used to tell herself stories.

  I take a deep breath. What is that smell? The burning scent … I get up and check the hallway.

  Check the kitchen.

  Check the living room.

  Check outside.

  Nothing.

  No flames.

  But the bathroom window, across the hall, is open a crack. Is something burning outside? I inhale through the screen, unable to tell.

  Meanwhile, my phone continues to chime. I cross back to my room to grab it. It’s not a reminder. Garret’s name flashes across the screen. “Hello?” I answer.

  “Hey.”

  I stare at my palm. The words from my dream—from the message Peyton received—To Be Continued—appear in blistered red letters. I press my eyes shut and count to three before looking again. The words have vanished. In their place is the phantom burn mark from five years ago, the patch of skin without any lines.

  “Terra?” Garret asks. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I lie, stretching the truth like bubble gum.

  “So, I’m doing research,” he says. “About water wells … I know you’ve been searching for the one in Hayberry Park. I also know it doesn’t seem to exist.”

  “You heard that kid in the homeschool class. He saw it too.”

  “Or at least he claims he saw it. What if he saw something that appeared to be a well—with a brick base, a wide opening, and that burrowed deep into the ground? But what if it was something else entirely?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Ever consider the possibility that maybe you weren’t inside a well?”

  “Wait, what? What else could it have been?”

  “Well, as I said, I’ve been doing some research, specifically about mining tunnels. I found evidence of salt mines located about a mile from Hayberry. Maybe some of those mines were even closer; maybe they just weren’t documented. From what I’ve seen, some of those underground tunnels went on for miles, branching off in different directions. A lot of them caved in over the years, restricting passageways and creating new crevices. Anyway, it was just a thought.”

  Just a thought.

  I bite my lip.

  What are the odds that I’ve been looking for the wrong thing all this time, assuming the water-well book was indicative of the location? “But don’t you think the park rangers would know if there were an opening to an underground mine? There’s nothing to indicate one on the park map.”

  “Right, but the space you were in … it didn’t go anywhere, right? Wasn’t it just a pit? So, maybe it’d been created after the fact—from one of those cave-in situations. Or could it have once been used for storage?”

  “Still, don’t you think the rangers would know about it?”

  “I guess that depends. Where was it? Hayberry Park spans, like, a bazillion acres. Do you really think the rangers know every inch?”

  The hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, as though charged by possibility, like an animated cartoon. “I can’t believe you did all this research.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was fun for me.”

  “You can’t be serious. But thank you. So much.”

  “No problem. We’ll find the answers. But right now, how about we find ourselves some coffee? Care for a cup of Critter’s?”

  “That sounds a little gross.”

  “But it’ll taste so good. Can I pick you up?”

  There’s so much research I need to do. Plus, I’m supposed to work later. But I tell him okay anyway. “I could use the caffeine.”

  “Say no more. I’ll be by in a bit.”

  I hang up and look back at my computer screen. My mailbox shows one private message—from Darwin12. I click to open it.

  Dear Terra:

  I hope I didn’t offend you before. I’m dealing with my own inner gremlins and sometimes I have a hard time knowing boundaries. Anyway, it’s true that Paylee22 and I used to chat a bunch, especially late at night when neither of us could sleep. If I can be at all helpful, just let me know. Believe me, if I could make one wish, it’d be for Paylee22 to log on. I’m worried about her too. I messaged the Jane administrators to see if they know anything. If I hear something, I’ll definitely keep you informed. Here’s wishing us both luck. Talk to you very soon.

  —Darwin

  I type back a quick thank-you and close the lid of my laptop, curious as to why Peyton never mentioned chatting with Darwin before. Was he a new friend? Or someone she’d been chatting with for a while? Was there a specific reason she never brought him up? I’ll try to find out later. Right now, I need to get ready.

  NOW

  40

  Garret picks me up and drives us over to Critter’s. The place is named after the owner’s pet ferret. There’s a picture of the two of them hanging on the wall, beside an ample array of Critter merchandise: T-shirts, thermoses, water bottles, baseball caps.

  We stand in line. A stack of newspapers faces me on a rack. The front page shows a cute little boy with curly black hair. The headline reads, TEN-YEAR-OLD SAVES ENTIRE FAMILY OF SIX FROM A HOUSE FIRE.

  I read the headline again, making sure I got it right.

  “Excuse me,” someone says, bumping me from behind.

  I get out of the way, moving closer to the paper. I start to scan the article for details. How big was the fire, and how did it start? An accident? Negligence? Or something else? Did it happen in the daytime? Did smoke detectors go off?

  “Terra?” Garret’s voice.

  The fire must’ve been smaller than the one on Bailey Road. The family members were probably already awake. The boy likely smelled smoke long before the flames.

  “Terra?�
��

  I look up, reminding myself: This is just another trigger. I did the best I could. (Is that really, really true?)

  Garret: “I ordered you a café mocha. I hope that’s okay.” He’s holding two cups.

  How long have I been standing here? I move away from the news rack, noticing a couple looking in my direction, exchanging words in hushed tones. Do they recognize me? Or are their stares because I can’t seem to catch my breath?

  Garret and I sit on barstools, facing the street.

  “I’m really glad you agreed to come out,” he says.

  I take a sip. The drink reminds me of Aunt Dessa’s mochaccinos. “This is perfect.”

  “Good. I’m glad. It’s my favorite too. Everything else okay?”

  Okay? The word no longer has meaning. I use it too much. It’s used on me too often. “Thanks again for all your research,” I segue.

  “Sure. It’s been interesting. But I have to ask: What made you think you were being kept in a water well to begin with? As opposed to an underground tunnel or cellar of some sort?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Try me.”

  “A book,” I say, proceeding to tell him about The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well. “I haven’t been able to find a copy of the book anywhere, so I’ve been writing some of it down, what I remember, at least—to see if there might be a message I’m missing.”

  “That’s really smart.”

  “Depends who you ask. No one really believes the book exists.”

  “What do they believe?”

  “That I made it up.”

  “Including what you’re writing?”

  “No one really knows I’m writing the story. When I originally told people about the book—and no one could find any evidence of its existence, including an author—it got dismissed pretty quickly, right along with my sanity.”

  “Did you try the Library of Congress?”

  “I tried everywhere. I think it must’ve been self-published and never registered.”

  “As though written just for you?”

  “Or rather my abduction was inspired by it.”