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

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 something? 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