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

—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.”

“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