The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (summer reads txt) 📕

“Yes.”

“But according to him, you never mentioned being followed, colliding with anyone, or nearly getting hit by a car. Is there a reason you never told him those things? Or that you’d texted your aunt earlier that night saying you’d be staying over at the sorority house? Did you have some other plan that you don’t want to tell us about now?”

“I don’t … I just…”

Dr. Mary continued to paw the blanket. “Do you need a moment?”

“I took photos of the license plate,” I said to whomever would listen. “Of the van that almost hit me.”

“Too bad your phone is now untraceable.”

Too bad I had to sit there.

Too bad no one believed me.

Too bad I got taken at all.

“I’m not lying,” I said yet again, still staring at the top of my aunt’s head. Why wouldn’t she look up?

“Right now, I think you should focus on resting and recharging.” Dr. Mary leaned in closer. “What do you think?”

Did it matter what I thought? “That sounds good,” I lied, sucking back tears.

“I’m glad you think so.” She smiled.

I stood up, more than ready to go. “So, are we done?”

But my aunt wasn’t moving. And she still hadn’t spoken. She sat slouched in the seat, unable to look me in the eye, to tell me what everybody already knew: They wanted me to stay there. They wanted to lock me up again.

“It’ll only be for a little while,” Dr. Mary said. “You’ll be able to rest and recoup.”

I reluctantly agreed, hoping that doing so would fix things somehow. Penance for surviving the fire? Time away while proof of my crime surfaced? I’m not really sure. But saying yes seemed like the right thing to do. And so, I did.

NOW

18

At work the following night, Katherine, the head librarian, places a steaming cup of coffee on the desk in front of me. “Still getting acclimated to working the zombie shift? This will help: straight black with a shot of espresso and a few droplets of garlic oil.”

“Seriously?” I ask, curious about the garlic.

She winks at me in lieu of an answer. The mug is winking too: a big bloodshot eye sits above the words Wake Up.

“Thank you.” I sit up straighter.

Katherine hired me despite my “bad-girl” reputation (her words, not mine), saying that my “three-dimensional backstory” was actually a bonus. To hell with the cookie-cutter caricature of the ho-hum librarian with glasses and a bun. She swiveled out from her desk, revealing Ruth Bader Ginsburg tattooed on one leg and a black version of Wonder Woman on the other. But the factor that really sealed the deal and earned me the job was my willingness to work the graveyard shift. And why not? Aunt Dessa is never home. And I don’t like being alone at night.

Katherine rolls a cart full of book returns in my direction. “Feel like reshelving for a bit? Movement equals momentum.”

“Sure.” I take a few sips, then grab the cart and spend the next full hour reshelving books. Most everything is on the main floor, but a handful of nonfiction titles belong upstairs. I check their call numbers, then take the elevator up a flight.

The majority of tables are populated by groups of students, but there are also a handful of “singles” (as Katherine calls them), basically people working alone. I start to return the remaining books to their spots: a jumble of science titles. I grab one of the last books from the bottom rack, spotting the front cover right away. It features a picture of a water well with cobblestone walls.

I blink hard, sure I must be seeing things.

But I’m not.

The title of the book is Water Wells and Septic Systems.

I look up and peer around the room to see if anyone is watching. No one is. So, is it just a sick twist of fate, the universe playing games with me?

I flip through the pages, searching for the cover shot. At last, I find it: a water well located on a farm in Roca, Nebraska, nowhere near the spot where I was being kept. The rest of the book is filled with diagrams of water channels and underground pipes, as well as photos of wind turbines and generators.

I take a deep breath and return the book to its place on the shelf. I start to reach for the next title, but stop short.

My eyes slam shut.

My insides shake.

I recheck the title. The Hiker’s Guide to Hayberry Park.

I look up again. The room has gone hazy. A veil of gray casts down over my eyes, in front of my vision. At the same moment, my body lurches forward.

What happened?

Someone bumped me from behind: a girl texting on her phone. “Sorry,” she says, moving on her way.

I count to five. Slowly, the images begin to fade back in. I scan the room: the shelves, the carrels, the singles and study groups. But nothing appears off. And no one’s looking this way, checking for my reaction.

Only one more book remains on the cart. I take it, my fingers trembling. The cover of the book features an illustration of a girl wearing a long red dress and carrying a sparkling wand. She stands beside a dagger-wielding cat. The title reads The Beechwood Encyclopedia of Folklore and Fairy Tales.

I try to open the cover, but the book slips from my grip and lands with a thud against the floor.

Girls working at a nearby table snicker to themselves, peeking in my direction. One of them is the texting girl.

I pick the book up and flip to the index, searching for The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well. I run my finger over the list of titles, unable to find it. Meanwhile, one of the girls in the group lets out a laugh. Did she do this? Do they know about me?

I retrieve the water-well book from the shelf where I returned it, set it atop the others, and make my way to the group’s table.

A dark-haired girl with bright