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

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 front 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